


The Queen Gambit

by Nectere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dacey and Margaery are BFFs, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nectere/pseuds/Nectere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery Tyrell, unwilling to marry a man in love with her brother decides her own course of action, and find a king she could support. She plans ahead and takes a few thousand men, and more loyal to her with carts of the fruits of The Reach to support Robb Stark, even though she has to get through the Lannisters first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The March of the Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I do play with the timeline a bit in the beginning: Eddard was already executed, Robb is King in the North, but the Northern forces have not yet done battle with the Lannisters, and are marching to relieve and aid Riverrun.

Everyone in her family treated Margaery Tyrell like a pawn in their machinations. Mace, her overly ambitious father was all about brute force. All he saw in his daughter was a pawn to marry off. He thought if he won Margaery a crown, she would have his best interests at heart, and tug her this way and that like a puppet. She loved her father, but he was better suited to hunting and hawking than ruling, and she liked her heartstrings where they were.

Loras loved her dearly and she loved him, they had always been the closest of the large family...but he was trying to convince her to marry Renly. She was tempted by the crown, she couldn't deny that, but she had her doubts. Renly was brave and handsome...and madly in love with her brother. Certainly, Renly would be kind and noble and array her in gold and silks and give her a crown, but she wanted to have everything, not  _just_  a crown. Looking down the line, she saw five years ahead, with a cold bed and no family, or worse, an heir and despite his love, the resentment of her brother. Loras wanted Renly to have everything. He invested everything in Renly. He would see his beloved sister as giving Renly things he could not and start to hate her. Margaery's heart could not bear that. She would rather keep the love and goodwill of her brother over the Iron Throne any day of the week.

Grandmother Olenna who was the only one who imagined Margaery had even a whisper of the mind she did, but even Olenna underestimated her and tried to move her about like a piece on a board. Olenna saw her as her heir apparent, a bright rose in a field of deadheads. She never understood the Tyrell words the way Margaery did. She wanted power for Margaery, not a crown.

Margaery? She wanted it all. She wanted a husband who would be glad to fall into her bed. Children who she could grow and shape and see them flourish like her great golden roses. She wanted a crown, but more than that, she wanted to be  _the_  queen. She wanted to be respected by her king, not be a trophy or a broodmare. She wanted to be allowed to be intelligent and move her own pawns, and with all of that, power. Power over her own life, as well as power to help the people she loved and all the small people. She wanted to grow and protect a kingdom, because so often, when people called her the Rose of the South, or the Rose of House Tyrell they forgot that roses have thorns and prick those that try and harm them. She wanted to be the queen  _no one_  forgot.

War was moves and countermoves, and while Willas dedicated himself to books and strategy, Margaery had sat in the solar perfecting her embroidery and absorbing everything he learned. Now was her time to move, before someone tried to move her. Renly was out, a Tyrell had his heart and it wasn't her. Joffrey, well, he was either a pawn of his mother who had innocent bastards slain, or he was a monster himself. The rumors of incest didn't help, she wanted her children to be strong and, more importantly, sane. Incest had led to the fall of the Targaryens and was not something she wanted associated with her unless she had no other choice, especially not with how bloodthirsty Lannisters were. She would _not_ be a reprise of Elia Martell.

That left one option. Loras would back Renly, and she...would place her bets on the Starks. Emotion was a great driving factor, and after the mockery Joffrey had made of Eddard Stark at the holy Sept of Baelor; well, even she had an emotional reaction to that. That could inspire people to great heights to conquer even the Lannisters, who had been decimating the Riverlands. She knew the Starks were marching, and so, she planned.

Quietly she gathered people around her: three handmaiden cousins, the apprentice smith, most of the stablehands, and an easy three thousand men her father had expected to take to King's Landing and what Loras had hoped to take to Renly. She then arranged for several wagons to be filled, which raised no eyebrows with her family, given her work keeping the borders of The Reach well-fed and the Tyrells well-liked. She split everything into easy groups which would raise no eyebrows, and headed towards the Roseroad as if on a trip of giving and charity, heading to where all her groups would meet after making their ways there. By the time anyone knew she had left for good, it was too late, and they had no idea where she was going.

* * *

 

The plan worked flawlessly, at first. Mace ruled with money and force, Olenna with fear and a sharp tongue, while Margaery wanted her people, every person sworn to her house, to love her, and care the way she cared for them. She had spent years soothing egos injured by Olenna, embroidering layettes for family and smallfolk alike, and feeding them as much as she could. She had won her troops from her father not with golden hands or dragons, but because she cared and they cared back. She had people and she had a plan...but she was not prepared for the weather.

As they moved towards the Riverlands, with an eye on the North, it got colder. Margaery hadn't any gowns fit for even the Crownlands, let alone all the cold coming from the rivers and blowing south. It was a weakness, and she knew it, but she refused to give in, even as she shivered in her seat. She would adapt, she was not hothouse flower to wilt easily. It would get colder, but she had no way to commission warmer clothes that would not hint of where she was headed before she left.

Waving slightly, she stopped her people, and dismounted, drawing two scouts on either side of her. They were the youngest and the fastest. "Garick, Lynten, I want both of you to break off and run ahead. I will give one of you a letter, and he must give it to Tywin Lannister, wherever he is stationed. The other must find his way to the northern camp and give Lord Stark a message. Will you do this for me?"

"Of course, Lady Margaery!" Both boys chorused, puffing up slightly at being given important missions.

Margaery smiled and ruffled both boys' hair. She eyed them both, and due to Garick's heavy shoes, sent him to the northerners, giving Lynten the letter for Tywin. As the boys set off, the men started setting up camp, and Margaery said a silent prayer to the Mother for her scouts, and one to the Smith and the Crone for herself. She would need both strength and wisdom for this. Loras and Renly were likely on the move, but she had a few days on them, at least. If they even bothered to come towards the Riverlands, more likely they went to the Crownlands themselves.

When the camp was built, more ostentatious and obvious than it had been on their journey thus far, and she settled in to embroidering as she schemed and ran through possibilities. Suddenly, there was a skirmish outside her tent and she walked out to find five men in Lannister red, swords drawn, surrounded by Tyrell men. She was unsurprised, they had been coming across Lannister men for awhile, but none had been so stupid as to confront them. She pasted on a smile. "Hello, good sirs." She greeted, surprising them with her presence. "Have my men startled you? I apologise." Sixteen and pretty, even if worn from days riding, she was not whom they expected to be commanding such a force. "I'm Margaery Tyrell, youngest child of Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower." She gestured to the wagons behind her. "I come bearing supplies and men for Lord Tywin."

The men did not seem convinced, and the most senior grunted, actually grunted, at her. "The Tyrells have sworn support to Renly Baratheon."

Margaery smiled at him, all doe eyes. "I come on my own loyalties, not those of House Tyrell." So her father had supported Loras, in the end. Smart of him, he was more likely to move the Mander from it's course than Loras from Renly. "With people loyal to me."

The man looked unsure, but the troops before him were none he wanted to take on with only four brothers in arms. "We'll have to report this to Lord Tywin."

"Of course, I expect nothing less." She turned to one of her cousins. "Lynette, pack a hamper from the first cart for these good soldiers, and another to take to Lord Tywin, along with two small casks of wine." The men, long starving in the scorched Riverlands and tired of fish, were glad to see the bounty of The Reach being prepared for them, and Margaery handed the hampers over to two of the men. "Please, eat your fill from one, and bear the other to Lord Tywin with my regards."


	2. Lions, Wolves, and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery's messengers get to their destinations, and the Rose of Highgarden continues her march northward.

Robb Stark, King in the North, was pondering the problems with how to cross the fords and free Riverrun, when Lord Karstark brought a young boy into the planning tent, holding him up by the neck of his fine green and gold shirt, off the ground. He blinked at the boy, who looked cross, like Rickon when something had not gone his way, but intimidated by all the large northern men. "Put me down!" the boy complained, thrashing. "I am here to deliver a message to Lord Stark!"

Rickard Karstark shook the boy slightly. "Found this trying to sneak into the camp, Your Grace." Rickard said, with a toothy smile. "Says he has a message for you."

"I do!" The boy said petulantly.

"Oh, let the boy down, Rickard. He can't be much older than Bran." Catelyn Stark said, with a shake of her head.

Rickard looked to Robb, who nodded. Slowly he let the small boy down. "I hardly knew I was holding him, to be honest, he's so light!" He said, with a laugh.

Robb could hardly imagine the boy being much of a threat, but he put on his serious face anyway. He had just been crowned King in the North, and he had to represent his people. "You carry a message from the Lannisters?"

Garick Flowers had a moment of looking utterly offended, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head. "No, sir…"

"Your Grace, boy! You stand before the King in the North!" One of the men corrected.

"No, Your Grace." Garick corrected, attempting a bow, and half-succeeding. He pointed to the golden rose on his tunic. "I bring a message from Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Robb blinked twice. He knew the Tyrell name, they were one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, but they were as south as you could go, and he hadn't paid as much attention to them as he probably should have. He looked to his mother for guidance. "I thought Lady Tyrell's name was Alerie."

"It is." Catelyn said, just as surprised, but more knowledgeable in the houses to the south. "Margaery is her daughter, Ser Loras's younger sister."

"What's some souther chit want with the King in the North?" Someone grumbled.

Garick flung around, looking for the voice, pride coming out as his chin wibbled. "Lady Margaery is not a  _chit_!" He said, almost shouting, but not quite. "She's kind and smart and…"

Robb put a hand on the boy's shoulder, turning him back around as he would have one of his brother's if they were gearing up for a real fit of temper. "I'm sure she appreciates you defending her honor...what's your name?"

"Garick," the boy said, slightly calmer. "Garick Flowers." He blinked and bowed again. "Your Grace." He blushed slightly. "I apologize for the outburst."

Robb nodded, noting that the boy was a bastard - Flowers in the south was like Snow in the north. "What's your message, Garick?"

Garick pulled himself up to his full height and tried to look serious. "Lady Margaery Tyrell bid me to tell you that no matter the actions of House Tyrell, she supports you." He repeated slowly, afraid of missing anything. "She comes from the south with three thousand men to aid your cause, as well as what food and resources she could gather before we left The Reach."

Catelyn's eyebrows jumped up, surprised. "The Tyrells have declared for Renly Baratheon."

Garick nodded, chin jutting again. "House Tyrell has declared their support to Renly Baratheon, Lady Margaery is declaring her support for you, with what people are loyal to her over her House." Garick, who had been a kitchen boy in Highgarden saw their confusion and continued, trying to help. "She will clear the way of red and gold in three nights at the Ruby Ford in good faith, so you can march to aid Riverrun as the lions sleep."

"What can some Southron girl do to clear the way at the Ruby Ford?" Rickard said, in disbelief. "And why declare for us when her home is so far away?"

"Lady Margaery Tyrell is Olenna Redwyne's granddaughter. I suspect she has a plan, if she has an ounce of her grandmother's wits." Catelyn said, amused at him. "Though that doesn't answer why." She looked at the boy. "Do you know why, young man?"

Garick pulled on the edges of his tunic. "I'm not supposed to know." He said quietly.

"Go on, Garick." Robb said kindly. "I won't judge her harshly, no matter what you say." It wasn't exactly true, but three thousand men were three thousand men, and could help free the Riverlands and rid them of the Lannisters.

Garick started speaking quicker now that he was not trying to remember a message. "Lady Margaery always does what she thinks is right and wise. The Lannisters have done horrible things and they profaned the Sept, but she thinks Renly wrong...and...that the North deserves justice." He shrugged. "She wants to be here." His voice dropped. "And she didn't want to marry Renly, he loves another Tyrell, but Lord Mace..." He trailed off and shrugged.

Robb considered this. So much of his movements were all about his father first, and then his sisters, followed by his banners and the people of the North, that he had not thought beyond it. Unlike Renly and Stannis he had no interest in the Iron Throne. "You can thank your lady, Garick, and tell her we are grateful for the men and supplies, as well as any help she can give. We may welcome her, if she proves true at Ruby Ford." He paused as the boy nodded enthusiastically. "But please inform her that I have no interest in the Iron Throne, only to protect the North, get my sisters back, and establish Northern independence."

Garick nodded easily, but Maege Mormont had other thoughts. "Can we trust a girl Hightower bred? Lynesse Hightower was a spoilt brat who could not weather the North and brought nothing but ruin with her."

Robb shook his head, sliding more and more into the uncomfortable role of a politician as time wore on. "If she gets us over the Ruby Ford, we can trust her, if she cannot weather the North, she is free to return South."

"If it works." Umber noted.

"If it works." Robb agreed. "If it works, we won't have to worry about the Freys. If it doesn't, we've lost nothing but a few days we were going to lose in planning and negotiation anyway."

* * *

 

Margaery was pleased when the Lannister men left, their arms full, and looking as though she was a miracle brought by the Seven. The pieces of a plan falling into place felt like nothing else. She moved through the encampment checking on everyone and keeping spirits high and happy. She just hoped that everything would continue as well as it had started.

* * *

 

Tywin Lannister was looking over his maps with his generals, such as they were, when his strategizing was interrupted by a nervous Lannister guard. "My lord?" The young man said nervously. "There's a messenger for you."

"Well?" Tywin barked. "Send him in!" He turned back to his maps, only to hear his brother chuckle at his side. He looked over to see some young boy in Tyrell colors. He stopped and stood up straight, surprised. "You have a message for me, boy?"

Lynten nodded, and bowed deeply. "From Lady Margaery Tyrell, milord." He held out the envelope to the patriarch of the lions, and held his ground.

"Is that so?" Tywin said, taking the envelope and eying the green wax seal. He broke it with his dagger and pulled out the letter.

_My Lord Lannister,_

_I pray to the Warrior and the rest of the Seven that this message finds you in good health and good place. I am, at the moment, camped about a day's ride from your encampment with three wagons of supplies from the Reach and three thousand good, strong Southern men willing to take up arms. I fear my Lord Father and brother have let their ambition reign unchecked and have forgotten that House Tyrell have once and always remained good and faithful stewards to the crown. While what I can offer is paltry compared to the numbers of my House, I feel it is my duty to do what is right for the realm to truncate war and ruin and offer it up to end these conflicts._

_Sincerely,_

_Lady Margaery Tyrell_

"Well," Tywin said, leaning back. "It seems as though what they say about Tyrell women being smarter than their men has just been proven true." He threw the letter on the table. "Mace's daughter has disavowed her father's idiocy and brought us three thousand men and wagons of supplies."

Kevan Lannister was startled. "She's only sixteen!"

"Who cares how old she is if she's brought us anything other than fish?" Daven argued. "All of us are sick to death of fish and hard, stale bread."

"We shall see." Tywin said. "She's a day's ride or so she claims, but who knows at what pace they travel." Tywin hated to see good minds wasted on women. If what she said was true, Margaery Tyrell had a better head for politics than most of the men at his table. It was no small feat for a girl of sixteen to steal three thousand men from their sworn house. "We shall see."

* * *

 

The day dawned bright, albeit chilly, and Margaery had her cousins prepare for the parts they were playing. All three of them dressed in their best riding clothes, like fine ladies out for a day's ride instead of the weary travelers they were. Everyone there wanted to present House Tyrell as the gleaming Rose of the South, bearing gifts and aid, from the squires polishing armor to the messenger boys and stable lads, all arrayed in fine tunics. "A rose is only as good as its' petals." Margaery told her younger cousin Nyssa, while the girls were taking turns doing their hair. "Without the petals, everyone can see the thorns."

Today the group was as energized as they had been when they first left The Reach, and as Margaery rode in front, on her silver palfrey, her concern for her people wrapped up tight. No matter what, she would feel guilt for every man who died as a result of this move, but she could not show it, especially when so far nothing had happened. It did not do to dwell on doom where it had yet to occur. That was like inviting the Stranger to take a pick. The day was halfway through when she realized that despite the fact that she had worn a lighter dress, she had not shivered once, despite the way the wind blew at them. She pulled herself up straighter and smiled. Even the fact that she was adapting, that she was  _growing stronger_  did not make it any easier to be bright and bubbly after a full day's ride when they finally reach the encampment. Still, Margaery did as she has always done, and pulled herself up as properly as she can as the red and gold banners come into sight.

Her earlier gifts had worked their magic, and even as she rode up, she could see grateful eyes. It made her almost feel bad for the deception, _almost_. The guards, weary of a long day and war that they did not particularly want, escorted Margaery to Lord Tywin, who stood as she entered his tent.

"Lady Margaery," Tywin said, with something not quite a bow and not quite a nod. "I was quite surprised by your letter."

Margaery dropped into a deep curtsy, but averted her eyes for only a moment. This was a game with a delicate balance, Tywin would not believe a simpering sycophant or trust someone too shrewd or too foolish. "Lord Tywin, it is an honor sir."

"My men say you have not lied about your numbers. How did a girl of six and ten manage to convince three thousand troops to follow her?" Tywin asked, studying the doe-eyed girl, dressed so impractically for war or even for wandering.

Margaery smiled at that. "My lord-father forgets that the Tyrells are stewards in his ambition, my lord. He forgets how House Gardener was destroyed by placing themselves in a battle they could not win. I have no desire to be destroyed in going against the rightful king, and neither did the men. The will to preserve the self, when cloaked in obedience to a member of the House can ease a man's conscience."

Tywin studied her shrewdly, looking for flaws in her words. He noticed how in the long silence and under his eyes, she did not shrink away or quail, and instead, stood confidently before him in a way most of his men did not. "Well, we thank you, Lady Tyrell. We are in your your debt."

Margaery nodded and curtsied again. "Thank you, Lord Tywin." She said easily. "Might I go assist my cousins with tending the supplies we've brought?"

"Of course." Lord Tywin replied, with a slightly deeper bow. "And you must sup with my generals and I for the duration of your stay." He wanted to get to know her better, and a Lannister never forgets his debts, after all. Besides, with a head like that one, she might be able to turn his grandson into a proper king.

Margaery smiled prettily at him. "It would be an honor, milord." She curtsied again, and took her leave.

* * *

 

Garick found them at the camp, and Ser Garth Fossoway was the one to bring him before Margaery. She thanked her cousin, and then settled Garick at the table in her tent, handing him peaches and cheese from her chest. "Here, Garick, sit and eat." She encourages, pouring him a cup of water. "How was your journey? You were not harmed?"

"Nah," Garick said, with a mouthful of peach and boyish bravado. "Some big oaf tried to catch me, but I made him take me to King Robb."

Despite all of her siblings being older Margaery had spent enough time with children, noble and smallfolk, and rewrote his words in her mind without bursting the bubble of his brave tale. She picked up her embroidery, and sat across from him as if he wasn't an orphan she had brought to the Highgarden kitchens because she found him endearing. "And what did King Robb have to say? Was he cross with you?"

"Only a bit when I challenged one of his men, because they called you names." Garick said, puffing up slightly. "But not really."

Margaery offered him a smile, pleased with that answer. "I knew I could count on you to defend me." She said easily, watching as her messenger flushed with pride. "And do you bring a message back?"

Garick nodded, mouth full of peach like a squirrel. It took him a few minutes to swallow, even with taking a deep drink of water, but he knew Margaery would scold him for talking with his mouth full. "He's grateful for the men and supplies, and will gladly welcome you after you prove true at Ruby Ford, but he wants you to know he has no interest in the Iron Throne, only freeing his sisters and Northern independence."

"And the others? What did his men think of my message?" Margaery asked, nodding at this. She had known that he did not want the Iron Throne.

Garick made a face. "They are unsure." He admitted. "They aren't sure what to think."

Margaery nodded, she had expected as much. "What did you think of King Robb, Garick?"

Garick considered the question, pleased that Lady Margaery valued his opinion so much. "He didn't treat me like a child." Garick recounted. "Or say anything about being a Flowers." Garick was sensitive about his last name, because he had been found in a burned out house by the corpses of his parents, but without a name to put to them, all he could be called was Flowers. "He listens to his men...and there was a few ladies there too...but he made the decision himself." He considered all of this. "I think he's a good person."

Margaery listened attentively, interested in Garick's opinion. Every piece of information she could get was helpful, and if her people could respect Robb Stark everything would be easier. "Good. You've done well, Garick." She handed him a piece of candy. "Finish your cheese and off to your tent with you." She patted him on the head. "Tomorrow is a busy day."


	3. Aid From The Mother

Alerie Hightower had not been a particularly useful or loving mother, pushing her children on wet-nurses and septas as soon as she could, but she made sure that her daughter had all the arts necessary for Margaery to be a good gentle-wife. Margaery found what little instruction her mother gave her quite useful in camp. Apparently running a military encampment was not at all unlike running a noble household, at least not the way Margaery would do it. The Tyrells had ousted the half-starved scullions and military cooks and set them only to fetch and carry as the less weary, less battle-scarred Tyrell host took over.

Margaery was nothing if not a quick learner, from mother, septa, Maester, brothers and all others. One needed to be quick and shrewd or a complete puppet to survive in the noble houses of the south, and Grandmother Olenna had ensured Margaery was well-prepared for today, though perhaps not in the way that the Queen of Thorns would have preferred. Olenna would have never made such a bold gambit. She would have found a way to force her father to marry her off to someone else, like she had done when her father wanted to wed her to a Targaryen. She saw only danger in kings and crowns, and Olenna was first and foremost for self-preservation. Then again, Margaery had forfeited the crown of Renly's queen for the preservation of her own sanity, so perhaps Olenna wouldn't have been so displeased after all.

"Chop, not crush, Desmera." Margaery corrected her cousin with a shake of her head, wondering if House Redwyne was in the wine business solely because of an inability to avoid crushing things. She showed her cousin the better use of the knife blade, and shifted back over to her own work, where she was carefully preparing herbs.

She pondered her decision as she mixed and stewed, humming old Highgarden songs to herself. Many people would have suggested she poison the Lannister host, but it was a foolish idea. Poisons were delicate things, and dosages were important. Poisoning food was utterly impractical, because there was no way to ensure the people would eat enough, or even how long it might take for a poison to take effect. One certainly couldn't use a fast-acting poison, because feeding an entire military encampment at once was nigh on impossible, there were too many who had different shifts. If everyone ate at once any enemy would only have to waltz in at dinner to take the camp by surprise, and the moment people started keeling over, well, no one would take another bite. Slower poisons had time to be counter-acted, and it would be easy to prove what she had done by symptoms alone.

No, she would put the lions to sleep, as Maester Lorne and Great-Uncle Maester Gorman had done to her as a child, with Mother's Sleep, when her mind would not silence itself long enough to allow her to rest. It did not cloud the mind like the Vinsonge, or cause one to fall unconscious immediately in webs of dreams from which it was hard to dig one's self out like milk of the poppy. It only allowed for deep sleep once one relaxed and lengthened it by making one unable to wake until you had a full night's rest and woke refreshed, allowing exhausted mothers to sleep through even their infant's cries. This way, the Northern army could cross the ford and make their way into the Riverlands in cover of night while the Lannisters slept, without losing a single man, while in the morning the Lannisters would have no idea what had happened, and perhaps even be clueless that Robb Stark had crossed the Trident, though she doubted it would take Tywin long to figure it out.

Putting aside her herbs, she picked up the work of roasting and baking, thinking things through once again. This would be the point of no return. Right now she could still go out and side with the Lannisters, broker a match with one lord or another, perhaps even the very young Prince Tommen. All she would have to do would be to hand Tywin the Stark army on a silver platter, and her future would be assured as a very rich woman.

It made her think of her Aunt Lynesse, who had married into the North. Her mother had used it as a cautionary tale to prevent any of her daughters from seeking matches north of The Neck. According to Alerie, beautiful, pretty Lynesse had given up the chance to marry a rich Dornish lord or a powerful Lannister to marry a poor Northern lord for love. The tale did not end well, the North had frozen pretty Lynesse to the bone, and she cried for the warmth of The Reach and the opulence of Oldtown instead of the ice and cold with Northerners who cared not a whit for pleasure cruises or the high harp. It gave her a moment of doubt, as she had never been north of The Neck, indeed, she had never been this far north before at all. Then again, she was not going north to marry, lulled into the idea of some whirlwind romance. She was going North to escape from under her father's thumb and to protect herself and her brother from broken hearts. Loras, her beloved brother, had always tried to be the perfect knight, charming all, he was the one with his heart on the line, with a great romance, almost as doomed as Aunt Lynesse. He could never be with Renly the way he would hope to be. She had always be counseled away from love and romance, Grandmother had seen to that. Olenna had always warned her that her large heart would be her weakness, and she must be careful to think with her brain and not her heart, as was the folly of many maids, just as knights and handsome youths thought with their lusts and not their brains. She was more practical. She had to be, or she would be leading her people to nothing but death. Besides, Lynesse had been a Hightower, and they were as rigid as their home and namesake, Grandfather Leyton hadn't even come down from the great lighthouse for the birth of she or her siblings, or even Garlan's marriage. She on the other hand was a Tyrell, and roses wound where they would without concern, molding themselves to gardens, pots, greenhouses, trellises, and ruins alike.

* * *

 Lynesse Hightower was not just on Margaery's mind. Dacey Mormont, as part of Robb's personal guard, had grown up with a completely different side of the story than Alerie Tyrell. It made her mistrustful of southron people in general and Hightowers in particular. Maege had asked her to keep a weather eye on the Tyrell girl, being Lynesse's niece. "I don't see why we're trusting her." Dacey muttered to Greatjon, perturbed. "She's grown up closer to the Lannisters than the Starks. Do we really want Southrons in our camp?"

Greatjon was no great lover of the peoples to the south himself, and he understood her concerns, and if he was fair, shared many of them. Robb had proven himself to the strong man, however, and his fingers that were no longer there tingled at the mere idea of doubting one of the King in the North's decisions. "I'm not overly fond of the idea." he said slowly. 'But I trust His Grace's decisions...and I'd be careful being too loud on Southrons, Dacey." He gestured up ahead where Catelyn Stark rode beside her son. "Our King's mother is a Southron woman as much as Lady Tyrell, even if not as far South."

Dacey considered that. "Lady Catelyn raised fine Northern children with Lord Stark." She ruminated on this for a few moments. "I suppose not all Southers are unable to bear the winter."

"Aye," Greatjon replied with a nod. "And as our King is fond of saying...winter is coming." He slapped a broad hand on Dacey's back. "And we can use all the men and supplies we can get...unless you're hoping the Young Wolf will court a She-Bear, and afraid some delicate southron flower will show you up?"

Dacey snorted at Lord Umber, purely at how ridiculous that was. "I won't marry any man who would take me for his own House. I was born a Mormont woman and I will die a Mormont woman."

"Gods help the man who marries a she-bear." Greatjon rumbled with one of his great, deep, belly laughs.

* * *

 "You know what you must do?" Margaery asked, looking between Lynette Fossoway, Nyssa Tyrell, and Desmera Redwyne. Her dear cousins who had come with her this far, leaving behind Highgarden and servants of their own for uncertainty to act as her handmaidens. The three nodded as one and she felt a surge of gratitude that almost stilled her breath. She embraced the three of them, while she tried to gather her wits around her. She would need all of them tonight, wits and cousins alike. She was in her finest dress of Myrish lace and satin in blue-green and gold, while Nyssa had arranged her hair with golden rose combs in a cascade of curls falling down across the keyhole back of the gown. Margaery had even gone so far as to put rose oil on her wrists and behind her ears as she used to do at Highgarden on namedays and great feasts. It was extravagant, but it was the easiest way she could think of to show Tywin Lannister that she respected his House and titles.

* * *

 When it came time to dine, a golden haired Lannister came to her tent, asking her to sup with Lord Tywin and his generals, and she followed easily, with Lynette's brother Ser Garth at her back, which perplexed the messenger. Once she was in the war tent, that had been arranged for meals of the generals, she curtsied deeply, "Lord Tywin, thank you again for your gracious offer of dining with you."

"You're honored and yet you bring your own knight?" Kevan asked, curiously, from behind his brother, before Tywin could even respond.

"Oh!" Margaery said, as if startled. "Please, take no note of Ser Garth, he is a dear cousin, only accompanying me as a chaperone." She said easily. "He acts only as a safeguard for my reputation, milords, being female and unmarried as I am, he has been my shadow on this journey."

"A wise precaution for a lady of your standing." Tywin replied, before Kevan could respond. "Please, come sit and eat. I've heard you yourself spent the day cooking with your ladies for our enjoyment."

Margaery had the good grace to blush as she took a proffered seat. "It is hardly a Highgarden feast, milord, and I managed the kitchen more than cooked myself, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless."

Tywin watched her as his trusted page poured wine. "You are a very interesting young girl, Lady Tyrell."

Margaery tilted her head and drank a bit of her wine. "I shall take that as a compliment, milord."

"What will your father think of your rebellion?" Tywin asked, as the plates of hart, vegetables and other savories went around the table.

Margaery pursed her lips. "I believe he will be both angry and pleased, because he will hope that when this war goes to King Joffrey, he can hope that I will be soft-hearted and that he will not lose favor."

Tywin chuckled. "You don't think he will be angry enough to break whatever contracts he brokered for you, or dismiss your inheritance?"

"I am not yet betrothed, milord." Margaery admitted. "And it may well work against me, a future husband could pressure him not to dismiss me, but it was a possibility I knew before I made my decision and I will not waver."

"Just as well." Tywin replied, mind working quietly as conversation shifted.

* * *

 At the end of the dinner, Margaery found her way out of the tent, and back to her own. She was running on adrenaline, which was keeping the Mother's Sleep at bay. As long as she did not relax, she could hold out for a few more hours. She needed to make sure everything was in place. She moved through her camp, making sure everyone was ready to go at a moment's notice, and ensuring all of the Lannisters had eaten their fill. When she was certain, she went back to her tent, and allowed herself to fall into oblivion.

* * *

 The Northern army approached the ford several hours after nightfall, with a bright moon reflecting off the water, and were relieved to note that there were no soldiers waiting for them. They headed towards Riverrun, coming across a silent Lannister encampment, where even fires had guttered to a stop. The only people moving were dressed in green and gold, like the messenger boy.

The messenger boy who quickly scurried up to them, looking proud as a squire on his first time at tourney. "Your Grace, milords." he said, with a much better bow. "Lady Margaery and the Mother have lulled them to sleep. The sooner we move, the harder we will be to catch." He blinked, and added. "Lady Margaery says."

"Hello Garick." Robb said, in his best big brother voice. "Where is the mysterious Lady Margaery?"

Garick frowned sadly and pointed to the wagon. "In the wagon. She had to put herself to sleep, Lord Tywin invited her to eat with them, and she couldn't say no without making them suspicious."

Curious, Robb rode up to the first wagon of the three. In the second two he could see wheat and fruits and all sorts of vegetables, but the first one appeared empty. As he and his host got closer, the three maidens tending the wagon moved off, and they could see a brown-haired maiden, eyes closed in sleep, resting on the meadowgrass that filled the bottom of the wagon. Her handmaidens had covered her with a blanket baring the Tyrell sigil, and tucked a pillow under her head.

Robb could hardly believe that this Southern girl who looked as delicate and fragile as a pane of glass could have done all this, and just to escape her father and a loveless marriage. It impressed him and reminded him of Arya, with all of her rebellious independence at the same time. "Perhaps before she wakes we can reach Riverrun." He said, both to Garick and his men. "Let's not squander this opportunity."


	4. The Silence of Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Margaery meet and later she waits for the Battle of the Whispering Wood.

Robb knew that not everyone agreed with his decision to let the Lannisters where they lay. He didn't have to be a genius to know that his men were muttering. He had ears, and moreso than that, he had considered slaughtering them all in their sleep for a brief moment before he reminded himself of the kind of king he wanted to be, the kind of man he wanted to be. He wanted to be like his father. Unfortunately, his place meant he had to make his people follow.

"We could end this here, Your Grace!" Roose Bolton hissed to the king, as they rode through the camp. "We could give the incest king his own Rains of Castamere."

Robb pulled his horse to a halt, and looked at Lord Bolton. "And what do you think Jaime Lannister and the rest of his bannerman will do when they hear it? What do you think that incest king will do to my sisters, Bolton?"

"We could at least kill Tywin. Without the old lion, they'll have to regroup." He argued.

The conversation was interrupted at the other side, by one of the Tyrell handmaidens, all three of which were marching near the front, between Robb and Dacey, to ensure nothing untoward occurred between the Southron maidens and his men. "I asked Margaery the same thing." Nyssa said lightly. "I wanted to know why we couldn't just kill them all once they were asleep. She told me that war is waged in the hearts of the people as well as on the fields. No one ever forgot Elia Martell, and no one will forget the slaughter of the bastards, slaughtering soldiers while they're asleep would reek of cowardice and poison the people against us." She pouted prettily. "I asked her about killing Tywin, and she laughed at me. With Tywin dead, control of the Lannister finances goes to the Kingslayer or the Imp." Nyssa clucked to her white mare, patting the horse's neck. "That's why she ordered us to capture him instead. Keep him alive and you cut off the supply of gold to the Lannister soldiers, to the throne, to any he may have bribed or bought. Lannisters buy their men, they won't stay faithful when the gold of Casterly Rock is cut off."

"Do Southron girls tell you how to rule now, Your Grace?" Roose asked, glaring at the maiden.

"No, Lord Bolton." Rob said in turn, voice harsh. "But neither do you."

* * *

Margaery woke to the sun on her face and a furry pressure on her chest. She blinked several times, shifting slightly and looking up at the blue sky. She took a few moments to take inventory of where she was, and moved to sit up, only to startle the direwolf who had apparently been sleeping with his head on her chest.

A small spike of fear went through Margaery almost instinctually, before she relaxed. Even if it was a direwolf, it had apparently taken shelter in her wagon and never so much as bit her. "Hello," She said in a soft voice, one she reserved for Willas's hounds. She offered the wolf her hand to sniff, hoping to keep the wolf on her side if she attempted to move. It would be quite annoying if she were to go through all of this just to have her throat ripped out by a direwolf.

The wolf looked at her with large yellow eyes and sniffed her proffered hand, taking a step closer.

"My name is Margaery." Margaery offered, slowly moving her hand to pet the wolf, keeping her voice soft and even. She cautiously scratched between the wolf's ears She felt a little foolish for introducing herself to a direwolf, but really what else could she do?

* * *

Robb heard a bark from Grey Wind, and wheeled around on instinct. He had learned to trust his direwolf and to be alert for warnings from him. He gestured for Greatjon to keep the lead and went to investigate. He rode through the ranks toward where the bark had come from, only to find the last sight he would have expected.

Grey Wind, his ferocious direwolf who had torn off Greatjon's fingers before anyyone could react, was currently licking the face of the now awake Margaery Tyrell, who, despite the size of the beast, was giggling and had her arms around his neck as if he was an over-affectionate puppy. Robb couldn't help but stare for a moment, before clearing his throat. "Are you well, my lady?"

Margaery started, her already pink cheeks flushing further in embarrassment. She lowered her arms from the wolf, and cleared her throat. "I am well, if all has gone to plan." She looked away nervously. "Where are we now?"

Robb could not help but compare how the Lady Margaery looked now, with meadowgrass in her hair, face smudged, and blushing as opposed to the still, put-together prettiness of when he had first seen her. "Approaching Riverrun, though we have slowed to allow forces from House Mallister to join our group." He looked to Grey Wind, who was nudging impatiently at Margaery's hand, as if annoyed he was no longer getting attention. "Is he bothering you, milady?"

Margaery noted this with a precise nod, and shifted somewhat. "Not really, though I would like to leave the wagon." She admitted, patting the direwolf on the head.

"Grey Wind, to me." Robb said, pointing to his side. Obediently, the direwolf jumped out of the wagon and to his master's side, with a little gruff noise.

Margaery blamed the Mother's Sleep and the fact that she had expected someone who looked more like Eddard Stark that it took until he called the great direwolf for her to realise that she was speaking to the King of the North. "Your Grace," she said, flushing again and lowering her eyes and head slightly. "It is an honour to meet you."

"The honour is mine." Robb replied, ignoring the courtly games. "Your men speak very highly of you, and your handmaidens as well." He gave a little bow and offered her his hand. "May I assist you from your wagon?"

Margaery was startled from the offer, as one did not usually expect kings, especially kings who were trying to win thrones and keep them, to be so humble as to offer help for such things. Bemused, she took the proffered hand and allowed him to help her down, which wobbly-kneed from Mother's sleep, was very helpful.

* * *

Margaery had to admire the martial cunning of the young king, when the plan for the battle was laid out, helped in no small part by Jamie Lannister's overconfidence. Now, however, she was left to wait. The idea hadn't bothered her at first, until the quiet of the camp had invaded her ears and she thought back to all the things she had learned about soldiers, war and command over the years.

Grandmother Olenna, mocking her father's claims of battle-glory... _All that fat son of mine ever sieged was his table in his tent...he starved Storm's End and doubled in girth...some warrior._

The whispers in the barracks... _Lord Mace pushed Willas into tourneys so he could save his gold in case it came to war again. That didn't end well for his heir. He can't buy the lists!_

Loras, visiting home after squiring for Renly, annoyed and heartsick... _They're never going to respect me! Someone said I was more useless than father! Don't they know he's their liege lord?_

Her father never earned his men's respect, they stayed out of duty and for gold. She had no gold to offer, no promises of advancement, and who knew how they might feel after meeting the Lannister forces in battle. She had only their love, but love could sour from pain. She had no idea how to fight a battle, not truly. She knew strategy, gleaned from Garlan and Willas and even from her father, but not how to wage war. Garlan had made sure to teach her how to defend herself should she ever be come upon by bandits while taking care of the smallfolk of The Reach, but that had meant to be used against small groups, and, if it came to it, against herself. He made sure she knew how to slit her own throat, just in case.

Her hands stilled over her box of herbs and salves, which she had been worriedly arranging and rearranging. She could see to the injured, with the best of her ability, the ability that made Great-Uncle Gormon bemoan her gender and pretty cousins claim Alerie would send her to be made a Septa. She could heal them, yes, maybe, she could stitch them up with fine stitches as if they were samplers, but even that was too after the fact.

She tried to rationalize, she is, after all a woman. Lady Catelyn stayed behind, and Margaery realized with a start that she had still not met the king's mother, too busy making sure her men were ready for battle, that she took time to encourage each one of them, in a litany of house mottoes and platitudes, telling them how much she valued them. In the North, though, gender seemed to matter little. She had watched the king ride off with multiple women in his wake, and if they could do it, so could she. She must, for her men, for herself and for the war she had chosen. This war would be the making or ending of her, and she could not just sit and let it pass her by. She must, in a new way, grow strong.


	5. Gains and Losses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After The Battle of the Whispering Wood, Margaery goes to stitch up King Robb and make a request, and he surprises her while the pair of them surprise Catelyn.

Robb Stark sat in his tent, feeling strangely hollow as he always did after a battle. During the battle he was convinced of his moves, sure of the rightness of what he was doing, the righteousness of his cause, and bolstered by the faith of the people who followed him, most without question. In battle he often felt like the king his men called him, afterward he always felt like a boy out of his depth, despite winning every battle thus far. These were the times he sat in his tent, feeling more alone then ever, even with his mother at his side, and Grey Wind guarding the door. It had gotten to the point where Catelyn didn’t even try to talk to him, or console him for the lives he had taken, or the lives that had been lost. They just sat, both of them mourning the innocent boy the King of the North had been what felt like such a short time ago, in their own way.

This time, on the edges of the Whispering Wood, having soundly defeated Jamie Lannister in combat, and taken the Kingslayer hostage, King Robb had his usual melancholy broken rather abruptly by excited yips from Grey Wolf outside his door.

“What on earth?” Catelyn exclaimed, startled, as she glanced up. “Is that Grey Wind?” She didn’t know what else it could be, but she hadn’t heard a noise like that out of the direwolf since it had been small enough for Robb to carry around like a babe in arms.

“It’s Grey Wind.” Robb affirmed, glancing up. “Lady Margaery must be nearby.” The young king shook his head in amusement. “He adores her. I’m beginning to think she could steal him away if she wanted a pet.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes widened in surprise, and somewhere, quietly, she wondered what that meant. She had come to accept that the direwolves had her children’s best interest at heart, that they sought to protect the Stark children. She had been suspicious of the young Lady Tyrell and her random appearance from The Reach. She had every reason, her family was being attacked on all sides, and she knew the reputation of the girl’s shrewd grandmother. Perhaps she had been hasty in her judgement and should have done the polite thing and welcomed the girl to the camp, helped her settle in, but the only girls she wanted to welcome were Arya and Sansa.

“Your Grace?” Margaery Tyrell’s voice filtered into the tent from outside, polite and gentle.

Robb sighed and rubbed his face, wincing as he touched the deep slash under his eye: he had forgotten the injury he had taken from the Kingslayer’s sword. “You may enter, Lady Margaery.” He said, trying his best to sound kind when all he wanted to do was go to sleep and wake up back in his bed at Winterfell.

* * *

 

Margaery Tyrell entered with Grey Wind right behind her, wagging his tail. The direwolf was fierce, she knew that, had seen his blood-soaked muzzle when he had returned with his master from the field of battle, but he was like an overgrown puppy around her thus far. She curtsied deeply. “I am sorry if I have intruded on you, Your Grace.”

King Robb gestured dismissively. “Not at all, Lady Margaery. What can I do for you?”

Margaery glanced up from the floor, relaxing just a little. “I have been tending to the men’s wounds, and Lord Karstark said that the Kingslayer had injured you. I thought to see if I could be of any aid…” She trailed off slightly. “I’ve also come to ask for your permission to take someone to the battlefield in the morning, and say words for the men who lost their lives. I would go alone, but I don’t know the proper words for the Old Gods.” She frowned sadly. “I brought my men into this war, and while I don’t regret it for a moment, the least I can do for those who died is to send them with The Stranger properly, and it would seem wrong not to do the same for those that they fought with as brothers in arms.”

Robb never knew what to expect from Lady Margaery. She was unlike any woman he had met thus far. “Just a scratch.” He said dismissively, even if the cut stung him quite fiercely with the movement, reminding him that it was a polite falsehood. “Nothing you need worry yourself with, Lady Margaery.” He paused. “As to your request...I don’t think it would be safe. You never know who might loot the remains of a battlefield and the bodies.”

Margaery nodded slightly, but her eyes were glinting. “May I speak freely, your grace?”

“Of course.” Robb replied, almost surprised. She was never anything but unfailingly polite, but he always seemed to forget his new kingship around her, which was why he tended to avoid her.

“While I have no doubt of your strength, Your Grace, that scratch, as you call it, is quite deep, and just by eye, requires stitches, or at least cleaning.” She nodded toward Lady Catelyn, with another small curtsy. “If you fear my intentions, I can leave my box with your mother, and she can see to your wound.”

Robb sighed at that. “Lady Margaery, if I doubted you after Ruby Ford, which I didn’t, I trust Grey Wind to know when someone means me harm, and he adores you.”

Margaery flushed pink at that. “I shall endeavour to live up to the faith you both put in me.” There was always something a little strange in her interactions with Robb. The easy smiles and precise, politic words that she had honed at Olenna’s knee and among the shadows at Highgarden, seemed both easier and more difficult the more time she was around The King of the North. She had been trained up so well that if she didn’t use them, she wouldn’t really know how to relate to someone like him. At the same time, though, she almost felt like a liar, when she fell back into courtly ways and the polite manipulations of society. It was not a comfortable position, and it made her want to avoid him a bit. Just a bit. “May I tend your wounds, Your Grace?”

Robb sighed. “I suppose.” he said, rolling up his maps. “If it will make you feel better.” It was a concession he was a little bit surprised to make, even as he said it, but he pushed away from his desk. “Have you met my mother, Lady Margaery? You seem to worry over me as much as she does.”

“I have not had the honour,” Margaery admitted, with a curtsy to Catelyn. “Though I have heard much from the people in camp as well as from my grandmother.”

Robb shook his head at how strange this was. He would have thought the few women in camp would have made it a point to meet, forgetting, conveniently, that there were rules of introduction in the South, stricter than those in the North. “Lady Margaery Tyrell, may I introduce my mother, Lady Catelyn Stark. Mother, may I introduce Margaery of House Tyrell.”

“It is a pleasure, Lady Stark, I am sorry we have not met before this.” Margaery said with an easy smile, hoping to make the other woman like her, at least a little. She had longed for company beyond her cousins and the Mormont women who made no effort to hide their suspicion and dislike.

Catelyn smiled back at her, still unsure of what to think of Margaery Tyrell. “The fault is mine, Lady Margaery, I should have welcomed you to camp, but…”

“We both had other things to tend to, milady.” Margaery, interrupted, softly. “A war camp is not like a court. I should have paid my respects as well.” As she spoke, she opened a box very like a Maester’s box of healing, and pulled a dry handkerchief from her reticule. The slight awkwardness dissipated as she efficiently began to clean the wound. “Congratulations are in order.” She said lightly. “I heard how well the battle went, and with the Kingslayer as a captive, you have even more leverage against Cersei and the Lannisters.”

“In no small part due to the help of your men.” Robb admitted. “We may have still won without them, but there would have been more casualties. I do believe Garth has a friend for life in the Karstarks, he took what would have been a fatal blow from the Kingslayer for Torrhen, and then turned it around so Eddard Karstark could block a second blow.” Robb frowned. “How is Ser Garth?”

“His shield arm was broken, but I set it as best I could. He should recover, though I am unsure how much range of motion he’ll have in it.” Margaery admitted. “He is in surprisingly good humour, though. Torrhen is keeping him company with stories of Northern glory.”

“There are quite a few of those.” Robb said with a laugh. “I’m surprised how well your southern forces have fit in here.” He let out a sharp intake of breath as the kerchief, wet with sage water, was placed on the cut. He was surprised how gentle her fingers were as she cleaned the wound.

Margaery smiled at that. “I brought the men who are warriors for honour and right, instead of those who fight for gain and glory.” She chuckled. “I’m afraid three-thousand men isn’t as good as the seventy-seven thousand my father and brother have taken to Renly, but...these have better hearts.”

“Well, we are grateful to you, Lady Margaery.” Robb said. “Good men are better than sellswords any day, knights or no.”

“Then we will no doubt be successful, the North will be freed, and your sisters will return home.” Margaery said, animatedly, even as she threaded her sharpest needle.

“What will you do then, Lady Margaery?” Catelyn asked, curious. “When the war has been won?”

“She’ll return home, of course, Mother.” Robb said, as if it was obvious. To his surprise, however, Margaery was silent, busying herself with preparing the thread. “Right?”

“I don’t know where I’ll go, my lady.” Margaery said. The end of the war was always the dangerous unknown of her plan. “I suppose I would have to hope that His Grace would remember us, and favour with us for supporting him, and allow us to remain at his court in Winterfell.”

“I don’t think you would like Winterfell much, Lady Margaery.” Robb said, confused and surprised. “It will seem very cold to you, compared to here, and I’ve heard your men say they find the wind here bitter.” He took a deep breath as she began to stitch the cut. “Would you not be more comfortable back at Highgarden?”

Catelyn wondered at her son, so capable at leading a force, and so clueless about other things. “Robb, she left Highgarden, stealing three thousand men from him for a war that does not involve the south, when he wanted those men for Renly. Her father is not likely to allow her to return.”

Robb’s eyes whipped to Margaery, and he flushed slightly at the view, but said nothing, and his eyes travelled to her face. “How can that be true? You're his daughter!”

Margaery met his eyes only briefly, as she continued stitching, a little impressed that the pain did not break his concentration, though she wished it would. It did for many other soldiers, certainly. She could respect it, but that was difficult when she was vulnerable. “Family, Duty, Honour, are the Tully words, Your Grace, perhaps even part of The North and your ways, but my father is of the south, and desperate to be more than the stewards we Tyrells were in the past. He is unlikely to forgive me, or the men who followed me. At best I made a fool of him, at worst, I’m a traitor.”

Robb fell quiet as she finished stitching and covered the whole thing with a salve to encourage healing.

Margaery was unsure how to take his expression and silence. “I do not regret my choice, Your Grace.”

“I know.” Robb said, finally. “House Glenmore has been wiped out, hasn’t it, Mother?”

Startled, Catelyn nodded. “Lord Glenmore and his son and heir Arthur have both died in battle. His daughter Eleana went missing some years ago, and his wife died in childbirth.”

“Your Grace?” Margaery asked, confused, putting away her thread and needles with her salves and tinictures

Robb stood. “As King in the North and King of Winter, I, Robb Stark, do hereby award Lady Margaery Tyrell for her loyalty and service during this war of independence, the seat of Rillwater Crossing, and establish a House Tyrell of the North, separate and independent from that of the South.”

Margaery, for once, was struck speechless, and lowered her head as he placed honours on her. After he had finished, she struggled for something to say. “I am honoured, Your Grace. I will continue to serve you and the north faithfully.”

“It’s going to be a lot colder at Rillwater Crossing.” Robb warned. “But at least you have a home”

“Maybe I’ll finally get to see snow.” Margaery replied. “I’ll have to come up with my own sigil. A pity it’s too cold for roses in the north.”

“We have blue winter roses in the north.” Robb said with a smile. “They’re all over the glass gardens of Winterfell. My father always said his sister Lyanna loved them.” He opened his hands wide. “You may use them.”

“On a field of white, for snow?” Margaery asked, with a smile.

“If you wish it.” Robb replied, with a grin. “It’s your house sigil to create.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Margaery said, collecting her things. “The cut should heal clean now. I’ll remove the stitches in a few days.”

Robb considered her thoughtfully. “Margaery...about your request. Would it soothe your mind if we held a memorial service for the fallen, here in the camp?”

Margaery considered this, and nodded. “The Seven have never done overmuch for me, though I do pray, and I know little of the the Old Gods, but I think it will help the morale of all the soldiers if their fallen are not forgotten like fallen leaves.” She stilled slightly. “My men came trusting me to care for them, and the least I can do is to care for the souls of those who have died, as well as pray for those still fighting.”

“I think you’re right, Margaery.” He smiled despite himself. “Now that you’ve seen to everyone else, I do hope you manage to get some sleep.”

‘You as well, Your Grace, Lady Catelyn.” She reached a hand down and scratched Grey Wind behind the ears. “You as well, Grey Wind. Don’t let any of those Lannisters make you ill.” She smiled and curtsied again. “Goodnight, Your Grace. Lady Catelyn.”

“Good night, Margaery.” Robb said, with a tiny bow, forgetting for a moment that he was a king, and did not need to bow.

“Good night, Lady Margaery.” Catelyn replied, her expression pensive. She watched as the young woman left, and wondered if her son even noticed that partway through the encounter, he had dropped the ‘Lady’ from Margaery's name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House Glenmore is from the video game series, but for this AU, we shall say it was wiped out before the events of this chapter.


	6. Of Swords and Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery and Dacey come to a kind of truce and tentative friendship, the north remembers the fallen, and Robb loses a different kind of battle.

If there was one thing Lady Margaery Tyrell didn’t want to do it was ask a Mormont woman for a favour, but Robb’s shocking decision to award her a House Tyrell of her own made her feel even more like she needed to be out there with her men. She had to be more than just the figurehead of House Tyrell, she needed to be a leader. So, like many things in war, a bit of her pride had to fall by the wayside.

“Dacey?” She called politely at the woman’s tent, having learned quite quickly that calling Dacey anything resembling ‘Miss’ or ‘Lady Mormont’ resulted in a snort or a muttering about ‘fine Southron manners.’

The flap to the tent opened fairly quickly, and the tall woman appeared, looking perplexed. “Lady Margaery.” She said shortly. “What can I do for you?”

Margaery glanced around the camp around them. “May we speak privately?”

Dacey’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she nodded, and opened the flap to her tent. That would be all the manners the Hightower-bred girl would get from her. Dropping the flap behind Margaery, she turned, arms crossed on her chest. “What?”

Margaery took a deep breath. No one beyond her handmaidens yet knew what King Robb had done for them, and she wasn’t looking forward to admitting it to someone who disliked her so much. Maybe she could get around it, reasonably. “I want you to teach me how to fight in battle.” She saw the look of disbelief in the woman’s eyes, and plowed on, before she could interrupt. “I know strategy, and I know how to handle a shortsword against a band of highwaymen or bandits, but I need to know how to properly lead my men.”

“You didn’t seem to mind in the Whispering Wood.” Dacey commented, even though there were a thousand other things she could have said. This had definitely been last on her list of reasons Margaery Tyrell would want to talk to her.

“I did mind.” Margaery disagreed. “I felt like a coward, especially after so many came back injured. I led them into this, it’s my responsibility...no, my duty, to lead them into battle too. I can’t just stay at camp when they’re out there fighting the battles I put them into.”

Dacey was unconvinced, but she understood the sentiment, she just didn’t understand it coming from the prim, proper girl in the ridiculously light dresses.

Margaery sighed at the look on Dacey’s face. “King Robb has been kind enough to create a proper House Tyrell in the north for me and my people. The north has adopted us, and the northern lords…” She nodded slightly to Dacey. “And ladies lead their people. I want to do the same, and so I must.”

Dacey’s mouth dropped open. “A northern House Tyrell?” She repeated. She found it a little hard to fathom, but she knew the Southron men were not fighting any less than the northerners. “So you’re planning to stay north then, are you?”

Margaery hadn’t really given it much thought before King Robb had done the insanely generous thing the night before, but ever since, she couldn’t imagine going back to Highgarden and being treated like a wayward child, or moved about like a pawn. “I am.” She admitted. “My father and brothers can have Highgarden and the golden rose. I will take the winter rose and Rillwater Crossing.”

Dacey nodded in grudging respect. “You can’t fight in that.” She said, gesturing to Margaery’s dress. She went to her chest, and dug through it. “You’re not tall enough for anything of mine, but Jorelle left some things accidentally that might fit you.”She came up with a bundle of wool and shoved it at Margaery. “I don’t have any spare chain mail…”

“I have some.” Margaery interrupted plainly. “Being the second-richest house in Westeros was not always safe, and I thought it would be of use here.”

“I’ll meet you in the burnt field to the west in an hour.” Dacey agreed with a nod.

* * *

 Margaery had borrowed Nyssa’s cloak to cover the tunic, chain mail and woolen stockings she was wearing. She wasn’t entirely sure what the three cousins thought of her desire and need to lead the Tyrell host, but they had not argued, even as they worked with speedy hands to remove or change all the sigils for the entire host. Margaery had sworn them all to secrecy, wanting to wait until the king announced it after the memorial service in the evening to let anyone else know.

Still, she went to the field ravaged by the Lannisters, and removed the cloak, feeling slightly awkward. She had her shortsword on her side, but it had been so long since she had used it that the weapon felt awkward in her hands. Her muscle memory was jagged and movements uneven. She should have kept up with her practise, but in the warmth and safety of The Reach, Grandmother Olenna’s lessons had seemed so much more important and so much more useful. “I’m not in the Reach now.” She muttered to herself.

“No, you’re not.” Dacey agreed, coming up beside the other girl. “And that shortsword will do shite-all in an actual battle. Carry it as back-up if you must, but here.” She shoved a longsword at Margaery. “It’s not as flowery, but it’ll kill.”

Margaery herself was torn between wanting to defend her shortsword and not alienating Dacey anymore, now that they had come to some sort of truce. Instead, she nodded and took the longsword.

* * *

 Dacey didn’t want to like the Tyrell girl, but she was starting to struggle at keeping herself cool and aloof towards her. Especially when Margaery had put aside her pride and asked for help and training, for the good of her men. Dacey liked loyalty, and she liked people willing to get things done. That didn’t mean that she didn’t want to hoist the girl by her hair when she argued.

“Just take the shield!” Dacey demanded, holding out one of her own to the girl, who seemed to have a deathwish.

“It’s too heavy.” Margaery said, shaking her head. “It’ll only slow me down.”

Dacey rolled her eyes heavenward. “You’ll get slowed down a lot more if you’re hit!”

“I’m more likely to get hit when I have to heft that thing around!” Margaery argued back. “I can block a hit with my shortsword.”

“You can’t block a warhammer with that.” Dacey argued.

“Warhammers are heavy and slow.” Margaery replied, hands on her hips. “I’m not.”

Dacey gave up. If the woman wanted to kill herself, so be it. Though...she was starting to think she might actually miss her.

* * *

 The entire army assembled in the camp at sunset, following an announcement from Robb himself. He stood before them, looking solemn. “While we have been victorious, the victories have not been without cost.” He said, thinking as much of his father as the men who had died in Robb’s own service. “We have come together to send them on to rest and more than anything to remember them. No life shall be forgotten. Our men are warriors and deserve no less.”

Greatjon, somewhere from the back was heard to call out “The north remembers!”

The crowd picked up the oft-used phrase and repeated it as one, reminding Robb even more strongly of his father. “The north remembers.” He echoed. “And so shall we all.”

He took a deep breath and began to list the names of all the men who had died and who followed the Old Gods. It made his chest ache a little, but nonetheless he continued, until the too-long list was finished. “May they be at peace with the Old Gods.”

He stepped to the side, and gestured for Wylis Manderley to step forward. He did so, slowly, and though awkward, said the names of the soldiers sworn to his house, but stuttered and stumbled over a prayer to The Stranger.

Margaery, seeing his problem, did something she had not really done in years: she sang a hymn, her voice aiding him in sending the souls of his men as best she could. She nodded to him, when he looked at her gratefully.

Then it was her turn, and she had to fight her own feet to step forward and do a the other had done. She resolved not to cry as she said the names of House Tyrell’s fallen warriors, but she could not help the way her voice had thickened slightly. She briefly said a prayer to The Seven, and retook her place, heartsore from the mixed feelings of pride, grief, and hope.

Robb stepped forward again, face stoic. “The north remembers!”

“The north remembers!” Came the answering call, and Grey Wind joined in with a haunting howl.

* * *

 After the small memorial, everyone retired to the mess to eat and to prepare for the planned battle that night. In order to siege Riverrun the Lannisters had split their army, and that left them weak. When night fell in earnest, the northern force would strike. After he had finished his meal, Robb stood.

“Everyone.” He said loudly, breaking through the reminiscing, eating and drinking going on. Silence fell rather quickly. “I think we were all suspicious of our Southron friends when they arrived,” he said clearly, and there were mutterings of agreement.

“I’ll be damned if one of ‘em didn’t save my son, though!” Rickard Karstark shouted, to several murmurings of agreements from other corners of the room.

“Indeed.” Robb agreed, glad that Rickard was making it easier on him. “They have given up House and home to be here and fight our battles with us, and for that reason, as King in the North I have decided to create a true, free northern House Tyrell, with Lady Margaery as it’s head, free from the politics and influence of The Reach.” There was silence for a moment, but Rickard jumped to his feet and applauded.

“They don’t fight like Southrons anyway!” Someone called from the back.

“They will be taking and manning Rillwater Crossing, unmanned due to the loss of the last Glenmores.” He gestured slightly to Margaery. “Lady Margaery?”

Margaery stood and nodded. “My men knew when we left we would be unable to return to Highgarden and came anyway.” She said firmly. “This honour is more than I ever expected, and perhaps even more than we deserve, but I have accepted.” She nodded slightly toward her men. “As our sigil, I have taken a blue winter rose, so that we do not forget where we came from, on a field of snow white, to remind us where we are and what we are fighting for. We grew strong as roses in The Reach, but now it is time for us to thrive boldly and without reservation in The North.” She sat down as the Tyrell host cheered.

Margaery knew it would not be easy, carving out a place here. She knew that some of them would always see her and her people as southern upstarts, but let all the gods damn her if she would give up and let them win.

* * *

 The camp was a flurry of activity as preparations for breaking the siege started. Margaery was wondering if she had enough time to ready everyone as she strode through her men, making sure everyone was armed and ready. Despite the best efforts of she and her handmaidens, many were still wearing green and gold, but that was to be expected, even dismantling dresses had not provided much blue fabric, and embroidery cases did run low. It wasn’t as though they could just run to the dressmakers, after all. Some more industrious knights, the ones most comfortable with their new friends in the north, had buffed their shields to white or bare steel, but either way, the mood seemed high.

She find a few minutes at the end to meet up with Dacey, who shook her head as she helped Margaery strap into slightly too-big armour. “You’ll need to get your blacksmith to make you proper armour eventually, but this will do until then.”

“When we have more time and resources, I will.” Margaery agreed, double checking that she had both swords, and a small herb bag tied firmly on her waist, should there be any need for emergency healing.

* * *

 Robb was walking through the camp, ensuring everyone knew the plan that needed to, when he saw Dacey and Margaery and his stomach dropped to his feet. He strode over to them, trying to keep himself calm, but despite himself, there was something grinding in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing for battle, Your Grace.” Margaery replied, as she twined her hair up and secured it to keep it out of her way. The way she said it was without pause, and he wondered if she thought it was a stupid question, and had he been Grey Wind, the fur on his back would have stood up.

“You can’t go into battle!” Robb replied, without even thinking about it. The words spilled from his mouth before he even knew he was going to say them.

Dacey turned and looked at her king, eyes narrowed, just slightly. “Why can’t she, Your Grace?”

Robb opened his mouth and shut it again, before finding an answer that wouldn’t set the entirety of House Mormont against him. “She’s never been in battle, she doesn’t know how.”

“You didn’t dismiss my input on the war council.” Margaery said, as if his doubt hurt her somehow,

“Well, no, you’ve an eye for strategy.” Robb replied, feeling like he had gone from king to criminal in less than a minute. “But an actual battle with blades and blood is different.”

Dacey shrugged slightly. “Her brothers taught her well. She fights a little too much like a knight, and moves a little too fast, in my opinion, but her men fight a little too much like knights too.”

“If you die, what will happen to your men?” Robb asked, trying to pull anything out that would stop this idea from happening.

Margaery only smiled at him, and it made him want to punch something. “They will follow you, Your Grace.”

Part of being a wise king was knowing when the battle was lost, and when orders would do more harm than good. “Very well.” He ground out, and walked away, direwolf trailing after him. He didn't like it, and he could think of many reasons why, but somehow it seemed like he couldn't figure out the biggest reason. Sure, he had worried her men might desert if she died, or that he would have to face the anger of The Reach if she did, but neither of those really came close and he wasn't sure why.


	7. Counsels and Councils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Riverrun freed and everyone recovering, the unrest in the camp and the cracks between the northerners and southerners start to show. Meanwhile Robb calls council to discuss a raven with news from Bitterbridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Having at least temporarily defeated the monster that is Writer's Block, I bring you the long-overdue seventh chapter of The Queen Gambit. Special thanks to philosoph-ie, cinderellasfella, and meridaweasley on tumblr who encouraged me to bring this fic out of hiatus, rather than let it die.

The siege was broken, Riverrun freed, and Robb declared not only King of the North, but now King of the Trident as well. By all accounts, everyone should be at their highest morale since the entire war had started. Breaking the siege had been surprisingly simple. Without the lead of Jamie Lannister, Forley Prester had retreated to Golden Tooth to save his men, and the leader of the western camp, Ser Andros Brax, had drowned. The remaining camp, full of Tyroshi sellswords, under threat and with the gold from Tywin cut off, turned on the Lannisters and for the moment had joined the northern army.

All was not well in the camp, however, and Roose Bolton was making sure of it, even as the camp moved into Riverrun and the forces swelled with the Houses of the Riverlands.

"Next thing you know, King Robb will be giving the Tyroshi a northern house." He muttered quietly, behind several of his banners, planting more seeds of discord. King Robb, a boy of sixteen, had the gall to disrespect _him_ and dismiss his advice. For what? Honour? The attentions of some Southern flower? Robb Stark needed to learn the dangers of going against him, and against House Bolton. It irked his pride even more that it had him regretting allowing Ramsay to keep Eleana Glenmore after he caught her in the wood. If she was still alive, half of his problem wouldn't even be happening.

* * *

"So we're northmen now." Erren Vyrwel said as he sat, cleaning his sword, surrounded by people he had known his entire life.

"Looks that way." Duncan Norcross replied, seemingly unbothered.

"And you're just...okay with that?" Erren asked, eyes slightly wide.

Duncan snorted at that. He was an old knight, who had seen the last war and survived it, and then survived Highgarden intrigue for even longer. Most of the men in this camp hadn't seen everything he had, though he had to admit, they fought well. However, they still hadn't had the softness entirely beat out of them, and some, especially second and third sons like Erren Vyrwel didn't quite understand the boon they had been given. "What did you think would happen?" He asked, amused. "Did you think we would win Northern Independence and then happily march through the Crownlands back to the Reach, where Mace would welcome us all back with open arms?"

Erren looked around at his friends, and then admitted: "I thought Stannis would crush Renly, and then Lord Mace would come and offer Lady Margaery to King Robb, with all the strength of the Reach, to put Lady Margaery on the Iron Throne. With the North, the Riverlands and the Reach, he would be undefeated, and Lady Margaery would be queen...a better one than Cersei." He frowned. "Now we are the smallest of the Houses in the North, and Mace has lost his daughter as a bargaining chip."

Garrin Leygood shook his head. He wasn't a veteran of the war against the Mad King, but he had known more of what he had gotten into than Erren. "The Starks and the North don't care for the Iron Throne. Had Margaery gone to Renly, like Mace suggested, sure she would be a queen, until Stannis put her to the sword for a traitor. At least this way we'll be alive."

Erren paused to consider this. "And Margaery will lead the House better than Mace." He admitted, with a sigh. "But you know Mace always wanted her to be a queen, and she would have been a good one."

Duncan looked out of the tent into the courtyard, watching as Margaery Tyrell wandered around the encampment, stopping to talk with soldiers, scouts, and horses alike, even with her ribs and shoulder bound from the injuries she had taken in the battle for Riverrun. This was normal behaviour for Margaery, who always looked after everyone, even if it meant buying less than appetising meals from a rundown pub in the far reaches of, well, The Reach, but what amused him was the large wolf that was, quite literally, dogging her steps. He smiled to himself, watching as she stopped to praise someone from House Flint in the same way she would have if they had been from Fossoway or even Tyrell. He didn't say it, but while the Starks had no interest in the Iron Throne, he wouldn't be surprised if Mace and his ambitions might find that there was a rose queen sitting on a winter throne instead, with no help from him.

* * *

Margaery Tyrell was more aware than most in the camp thought she was. She made her way through the courtyard of Riverrun, checking on the wounded of the army, but also trying to keep up spirits, and because she stayed in the hurriedly put-together camp, rather than a room in the keep, she heard the murmurings and the judgements, by herself and through the sharp ears of her scouts. Some of the people liked her, some were grateful for her aid, for the food she had brought that had now dwindled, some found her useful for her deft hand with herbs and a needle, but many still found her an interloper. She had heard whispers that she was a spy, an assassin, come to kill King Robb in his tent, or a Southron witch, meant to do any number of despicable things. She pushed down every feeling at these slights, and did her best to remain cheerful and upbeat.

This was slightly harder to do while in pain, but she persevered. She had known, after all, that battle was not a game, and she was actually surprised that she had survived her first encounter in battle. She knew many men more trained and worthier than she did not come home after their first experience on the battlefield. Some didn't even come home from their first trip to the lists, after all. When her horse had fallen, as she hit the ground, all she could think about was Willas, his bad leg, and all the anger suppressed into good humour and sublimated into breeding perfect specimens of horse and hunting dog that he could never truly enjoy. She had gotten lucky.

_Very lucky._

Dacey had not been wrong about the need for a shield, and Margaery would have to find one light enough to suit her, because had Grey Wind not ripped the throat out of a Lannister swordsman with perfect timing, she knew she wouldn't still be here. Even now, with her cracked ribs bound tight and her shoulder bandaged with salves from Riverrun's Maester, she realised just how close The Stranger had come to her. It was a strangely liberating experience, but to a woman so used to maneuvering and plans, moving in tight spaces with no room for error, she had no idea what to do with herself.

Grey Wind seemed to have decided that since he had saved her, she was somehow his responsibility or some such, because ever since the King in the North had gone into the castle, the direwolf had been following her. She put her hand down and stroked it's large head as she checked on an injured Mallister man, and, her rounds done, headed towards her tent, unsure of what else there was for her to do.

She hadn't gotten far toward where her men were camping, before Dacey Mormont appeared, jogging in her direction from the keep, and smiling cautiously, Margaery slowed to a stop. "Is something the matter, Dacey?" She thought, perhaps, they might someday become friends, though she wasn't quite sure. As the northmen were saying, the North remembers and she had no idea how long it would be until the sins of her Aunt Lynesse were forgiven...or at least no longer held against _her_.

Dacey nodded to Margaery, noting with grim amusement the obvious wounds, but also the straight spine of the Tyrell rose. "The king has called council. There's been a raven."

* * *

Robb sometimes felt his war spiraling out of his control. He had gone from the Heir of Winterfell marching to save his family with his father's banners, to _Lord_ of Winterfell marching with _his_ banners, to the _King in the North_ marching with _his men_ , and now he was _The King of the North and the Trident_ as the Riverlords had bent the knee without so much as a ' _by your leave._ ' He had accepted, of course, after seeing what the Lannisters had done to his mother's homelands.

Now, before he had even become accustomed to that, or the new lords now pushing their way into his war council, there was another raven, promising to be even more complicated. However, a raven, at least, gave him time and space enough to think and gather advice. He reread the scroll worriedly, unsure what it meant for him and for...his fight. He leaned back in the chair, between his Uncle Edmure and the Greatjon, as the called lords entered the room that he had set aside for his strategising. Grey Wind loped over to his side at the large circular table, where the maps of Westeros were laid out, with marks of troop movements and battle sites. When everyone was there that he expected, he removed the golden stag pin. "Renly Baratheon was killed by Stannis and his Red Priestess." Robb announced.

There was a gasp and he turned toward the noise, unsurprised to see Margaery covering her mouth. He cleared his throat slightly. "Lady Margaery?"

Margaery flushed as all eyes turned toward her. "My apologies, Your Grace. It's not important."

Robb was patently sure that this was untrue, but it was the proper, polite answer, so he didn't push. "The part of his force from the Stormlands have already joined with Stannis…" He trailed off slightly. "However, Lord Mace Tyrell has sent a raven wanting to meet at the source of the Mander to discuss joining us." This immediately started grumbling from the Northern lords, which Robb expected, what he did not expect was the quick and vocal disagreement from Margaery.

"No!" She said quickly, and then, flushed again, actually dropping into a curtsy this time. "My apologies, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn. It is, of course, your decision."

Rob blinked, and waved off the apology. "I would have thought you would be pleased, Lady Margaery...what has you so upset? Your father's forces are strong."

"And his ambitions unchecked." Margaery answered, and then her shoulders heaved, as if in a silent sigh. "You told me in your first message to me, Your Grace, that you had no interest in the Iron Throne, only in saving your sisters and establishing Northern Independence. Have you changed your mind?"

Robb shook his head. "Only insofar as I have accepted the Riverlands into the Kingdom of the North. Stannis can have the Iron Throne, it is his by rights."

Margaery nodded, as if she had expected this answer. "My father will meet you, offering up sixty-thousand men, probably even ships, with kingship over The Reach. If you take it, then you'll have three of the seven kingdoms, and the only way to keep the peace would be to take on Stannis and the Stormlands and Joffrey and the Westerlands and maybe Dorne."

"Sixty-thousand more men could mean the end of the Lannisters!" Clement Piper demanded, beating his hand on the table.

"It could." Robb admitted uneasily, hating to admit it. His people were winning and morale was high among the Northmen, but the Riverlords had been besieged and burned out by the Lannisters and their bannerman. "I shall go and meet with him, and at least hear him out."

Margaery looked torn. "Your Grace, if you go to him, my father will see you as another Robert Baratheon, brilliant on the battlefield, but lacking in politics. He'll try to set himself up like another Tywin Lannister putting your kingdom in debt to his gold and gifts, and you to his...advice."

"And you his Cersei, to sweeten the pot." Roose Bolton remarked, cold eyes hard on hers. "A way to guarantee the Tyrells breed little princes and princesses. I suppose we should be glad that your brother's _unnatural tastes_ don't run toward women."

Before Robb could defend her, to tell Lord Bolton that he was out of line, the former Rose of Highgarden showed her thorns, and the King in the North found himself amazed at how her usually soft eyes had gone dark and dangerous, reminding him of the trees in Wolfswood: powerful, wild and unyielding.

"Rillwater Crossing is independent of Highgarden." Margaery said, tersely. "We love our families from The Reach, but we are not theirs to bargain with, nor will we bent to their whims." She did not falter, however, and gave him a smile. "Don't worry, though, I shall inform dear Loras of your interest, Lord Bolton."

The Northmen howled in laughter, and even some of the Riverlords snickered, as Roose went white with rage. Robb quickly stood, to end that particular discussion. "What do you suggest we do, Lady Margaery, knowing Mace Tyrell best?"

" _You are a king_ , Your Grace." Margaery said, the tension dropping out of her shoulders as she relaxed slightly. "You are fighting a war. Your time is precious. If my father wishes to see you, have him come here and present his offers properly. With both Tywin and Jamie Lannister as our prisoners, any fighting they should come across between the Mander and Riverrun will be negligible, and the risk low. Do not allow him to think he can tell you where to go."

"That'll be a sight!" Lord Galbart Glover hooted. "The Warden of the South hisself bowing to the King in the North!"

Robb smiled to himself as his men enjoyed the idea for a little longer, and then moved the discussion on to the discussion of how to best aid the scorched Riverlands. His mind, however, was not fully on the topic, because his eyes kept wandering back to Margaery Tyrell, and he found himself wondering if she objected to the idea of him meeting her father and being offered to him as a match because of her father presuming authority over her, because of the idea of being somehow like Cersei Lannister as Bolton had suggested...or because of him. He found himself hoping that it wasn't the last, and that hope surprised him more than he expected.


	8. In Her Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time after the war Council, Robb decides a talk with Margaery is necessary, and the two have a chaperoned heart-to-heart about the future. They don't agree.

Robb paced in his chambers for hours after the meeting, and for awhile Grey Wind followed him as if they were ranging the Wolfswood, but before long even the direwolf had settled on the bed, settling for watching the pacing king.

_You are a king, Your Grace._

That was true, wasn't it? He had never wanted it, never sought out a throne. It had been pressed upon him and he had done his best for them all, but he was a king...and didn't that entitle him to be a little bit selfish? Didn't kings get what they wanted? What was the point of being a king if it never let you have anything? Why did everyone want it? He left his chambers, letting the door close behind him with a bang that echoes in the stone hall. He ignored it, even as a small voice in his mind that sounded oddly like his mother reminded him not to slam doors in the castle.

He felt new determination in his step as he strode out of the keep and across the courtyard to the mess tent, where most of the people still ate. His eyes scanned the contents, until his fell upon the woman he wanted to find.

* * *

The king's voice interrupted them at a dinner of the trout that was so plentiful at Riverrun, and Dacey looked up as he called her name. There was something sure and steel in his posture and in his eyes that reminded her of when he was commanding the armies on the field, and she shot to her feet and quickly to his side, ignoring the catcalls of her fellow soldiers. She was a Mormont woman, and she would die a Mormont woman, damn it. Besides, she knew Robb Stark had his eyes on someone else, even if he didn't know it himself, yet.

That became even more obvious as she saw where they were going, and hid her knowing smile as the king stopped in front of the tent and glanced at her. "Would you wait here for me?"

"Of course, Your Grace." Dacey murmured, with a brief bow, positioning herself at the door, and keeping a keen ear out. She wasn't Jorelle with delusions of romance and weddings. She wasn't that type of woman. She was a bear's daughter, after all. That didn't mean she couldn't enjoy some gossip and watching the love story as it unraveled in front of her.

* * *

The voice outside her tent startled here, and for a moment, Margaery panicked, looking over to Desmera's mirror, making sure that she didn't look a mess. Desmera herself, was sitting at her desk, but moved over to the chair in the corner, meant for unobtrusive chaperones.

Margaery tried to fix her curls, but opened the flap to the tent anyway, despite the high flush in her cheeks. "Your Grace," she murmured. "Would you like to come in?"

"I had thought to discuss your thoughts on your father's raven in more detail." Robb replied, voice catching slightly.

"Of course." Margaery answered, stepping back and letting him enter her tent, all gold and gleaming still, despite the heavy use it had endured already on this trip. It was odd for him to be here, in this private sanctum. She arranged a chair for him quickly, but the king she had chosen did not sit. Instead, he paced the length of the tent, his hands behind his back, looking at her.

The hungry look in his blue eyes made her stomach clench, and her own hands flutter as she stood by her own chair. His eyes were honest in a way she had never seen, used to polite words and proper address. She swallowed despite herself, feeling her pulse stutter. "Your Grace?"

Robb took another circuit around the tent, before turning and looking at Margaery Tyrell, trying to keep his calm and remember all the things his father had taught him about nobility and honour. "Is the idea of being my queen so _revolting_ to you, Lady Margaery?"

That would have probably been the last thing Margaery would have expected, and she had to actually put a hand on the back of the chair at her side to steady herself. "No, Your Grace, any maiden would be honoured to be your queen, myself included." It was the right thing to say. It wasn't what she _wanted_ to say, but it was the right words. The polite words. The words she was _supposed_ to say.

Robb stared at her, trying to understand what was going on in that mind of hers. He had seen how quick and sharp her mind was, her input in war councils had always been exemplary, and Roose Bolton wasn't the first person she had summarily dismissed. "Then why would the mere suggestion of it make you so angry that you snapped in such a way to Lord Bolton, the man whose family sigil is a _flayed man_?" He shook his head and looked at her. "He's a dangerous enemy to have, Lady Margaery, and I don't know how much I can protect you if you feud with him."

Margaery felt humiliated and shamed, in a way she hadn't felt since she was a girl and received a tongue lashing for her grandmother proclaiming her a fool, and her control that she had built up since that day, frayed as she kept her eyes closed, afraid of seeing his face. "Because between his efforts and my father's, I can't ever be." She said, voice rough, as if the words had been pulled from her throat.

Robb was startled by this, and surprised with how red-faced Margaery was. This was not the usual blush that he so enjoyed on her cheeks, she had gone pale and red at the same time. "What are you talking about?" He asked, trying not to get his hopes up at the implication that she did actually feel _something_ for him, even if he wasn't as polished or charming as her Southron knights.

Margaery sighed, ruining her usually impeccable hair by running her hands through her curls in her anxiety. "My father made up his mind I would be a queen when I was a child. I was raised to be a queen the way my brother Willas raised his hounds for the hunt…" She trailed off slightly. "On my fourteenth nameday my father decided to try and displace Cersei with me. When that failed, and the rebellions broke out, he decided to marry me to Renly...even though Renly's... _desires_ ….his _heart_..." She trailed off, feeling as though she was speaking badly of someone who may as well have been her brother-by-law.

"Your brother." Robb said, putting together all the hints of it. Garrick had told him Renly had loved another Tyrell, and Roose had made no bones about the Knight of Flowers in his comments about ' _unnatural tastes_.'

Margaery nodded miserably. "I don't even know if Loras is alive. He'd protect Renly to the death." She raised her eyes from the floor, looking into Robb's Tully blue eyes, feeling as though they went right through her. "So I left. I'll admit, I wanted to be a queen, it was all I was ever told and taught to be...but I didn't want a husband who couldn't stand my touch, who only had me at his side for duty...and if I bore his children, how long until Loras hated me? Being a queen wasn't worth that. That's not the kind of queen I wanted to be, not a broodmare for duty's sake."

Robb couldn't imagine a man who could have a woman like the one in front of him and not be able to stand her touch. He enjoyed it even when it was polite and appropriate. Despite the relative cold of the Riverlands compared to the Reach, she was always warm with equally warm smiles for him. "You want to take care of people."

Margaery started at that, surprised that he had noticed, but nodded. "As well as be able to give my input without being disrespected for being a woman." She admitted. "You've given me that, Your Grace, and I am grateful beyond words. It's wrong for me to want yet more, when you have done so much for me and for my people."

"Just because something is wrong doesn't mean we can't want it, if it is wrong at all." Robb said softly, moving closer. "Your men love you, they follow you without question."

"And your men distrust me." Margaery argued, in contrast. "At best, I'm a Southron newcomer, clinging to your victories to make a place for myself, at worst I'm a witch meant to seduce you, or a Lannister assassin meant to kill you in your tent."

Robb was startled by this, as such gossip hadn't reached the king's ears. "Who has said such things?" He asked, his teeth grinding "You've fought with us, were injured in battle, the same as any." That fact still rankled with him.

"Soldiers gossip as much as goodwives and their ladies." Margaery said, with a wry smile. "You are King in the North, and the North is not likely to ever accept a queen from the Reach."

Something of the sadness in her eyes made him reach out and place his hand on her cheek. "I thought Rillwater Crossing was independent of Highgarden, a sworn and loyal Northern House."

"It is." Margaery admitted, leaning into his hand despite herself. "And yet another reason I could never be your queen. There is no one else to lead it. I love Nyssa as a sister, but she couldn't hold it. She quails before my father, let alone trying to stand up to my grandmother." She sighed sadly. "I wish that we had met before you were a king." She said softly. "Perhaps then we would have had a chance."

"I thought you wanted to be a queen." Robb said, feeling his heart beating faster. "You wouldn't have been, then."

"No." She admitted quietly. "But I think I could have been happy with a husband who listened when I spoke, who looked at me with desire in his eyes and not my brother." She smiled a little. "I would have loved to taken you to Highgarden and shown you the godswood and the Three Singers, our great weirwoods. Grey Wind would have loved running through the gardens, scaring the maids and catching rabbits. Then we could have gone north, and stopped here when nothing would have been burned or pillaged, and more north yet, to see snow and your home." She blinked and shook her head. "But you are the King in the North and I will smile for you while you marry some Northern beauty or Riverlands lady and quietly lead my House."

"And you?" Robb asked, uncomfortable with the idea of a random marriage just to make his people happy, but not unused to the concept. His parents had been arranged for troops and alliances, after all, and they had loved each other. "What will you do?"

Margaery shook her head, pulling away from him just slightly, letting reality crash over her again. "I'll marry some second or third son with nothing to inherit, or some smallfolk warrior, glad to take the name of a Great House, even if I was born a Southerner." She laughed slightly. "If I'm lucky I'll end up half like Lady Maege and half Grandmother Olenna. I could always be the next Queen of Thorns, hidden away on your war councils."

"And would you be satisfied with that?" Robb asked, disbelieving.

Margaery frowned, not wanting to lie. "I will pray to the Mother that She will make me content."

Something unhappy churned in Robb's stomach. He dropped his hand, straightening his spine. "Make no mistake, Lady Margaery, I may be a king, but I am also a commander. If there is one thing I know, it's fighting for what I want. You pray to the Mother and the rest of The Seven, and I will pray to the Old Gods." He turned and left the tent for the castle, a whining Grey Wind at his heels, a surprised and flushed Margaery Tyrell standing stock still where he had left her and a smirking Dacey Mormont taking up her place behind him.


	9. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While news of the approaching Tyrells disquiet the camp and Margaery, Robb dreams of things that might have been and things that are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bout out there, but at least I'm offering a little fluff?

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled with the best, brightest, and most of the movers and shakers of Westerosi society. A booming laugh filled the gigantic room and all head turned toward the source of the laugh. King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, was laughing and toasting over the carcass of a huge wild boar. "It was coming right at me!" He declared. "I would have had it too, but the damn horse listed to the left, and if it weren't for Ned's boy I'd be at the Maester's mercy!"

Eddard Stark looked around at the opulence with a frown, but said nothing against the spending. He had to stay on Robert's good side with what he had discovered about Cersei and her children. He also didn't want to take the praise away from his son, who was flushed with embarrassment and pride as the tale of his swift move with an arrow had saved the king with only a slight graze.

"Ned!" Robert called, gesturing him over to where he was talking to a man almost as wide as he was. "Come join us! Mace has an idea to help you with that issue you're worried about!"

Eddard glanced at his son, who to his credit, had still not finished his first glass of wine, and was talking awkwardly with the squires and young knights of the realm. He relaxed, shaking his head at the thought that he had to babysit his oldest friend more than he did his teenage son.

Robb Stark was not used to all the attention he was getting. He had killed the boar on instinct, defending his king as he would have anyone, not for glory or politics or what have you. He still wasn't entirely comfortable in King's Landing, not like Sansa, who had taken to it like a duck to water, wearing her hair in all the complicated fancy patterns and tittering with the little princess in a way she never could with Arya.

"Robb?" A voice said, and Robb pasted on a smile, relaxing only slightly to see Ser Loras Tyrell, whom he had met earlier with Lord Renly, was standing there with a young lady.

"Ser Loras, good to see you." Robb said in his friendliest voice. "Are you enjoying the banquet?"

"Oh yes, of course." Loras agreed with a nod. "I wanted to introduce you to my sister, visiting from Highgarden." He gestured to the girl beside him, with pretty chestnut brown curls. "Robb Stark, may I introduce my sister, Margaery of House Tyrell."

"Lady Margaery." Robb said, with a bow, politely kissing her hand. "It is an honour."

"The honour is mine, Lord Stark." Margaery answered, with a deep curtsy. "I am fortunate to meet the hero of the hour."

"Just the man quickest with a bow." He answered, brushing off the praise.

"Or the man most loyal to the king." Margaery rejoined with a smile, brown eyes on blue. "I'm surprised I haven't seen you at tourneys before. Do you not compete?"

"My father says it is unwise to show your enemy what you are capable of before you meet him in battle." Robb said, a little embarrassed. He knew Ser Loras was quite well known, and had done very well at the Tourney of the Hand.

"Wise words." Margaery agreed, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Loras loves them. I enjoy the pomp and occasion, but there are many hurt in the lists, or even killed. I see little value in the risk, to be honest; it would break Loras and Garlan's hearts if I did not support them, but I do worry so." She couldn't help but fear that either or both of her other brothers would return from the list broken as Willas had. "My eldest brother Willas was badly hurt in the lists, he must walk with a cane now, and his joints often pain him."

Robb did not have to fake the sound of sympathy. "My younger brother Bran he...fell from a tower at Winterfell. He was always climbing. He woke some days after we arrived here. They say he won't walk again."

Margaery gave a little gasp, and polite or not, took his hand. "And you haven't been back to see him? How worried you must be."

"I am." Robb admitted, for the first time, not exactly knowing why. "But our Maester knows his craft and my brother well."

"A comfort, to be sure." Margaery agreed.

Mace Tyrell was not someone Eddard wanted to spend his free time conversing with by any means. He recalled all too well the siege at Storm's End and the man bowing the knee. However, with what he knew about Cersei's children, he would need more than Robert's friendship and his honour to survive, Robert's near-death taught him that. He had never been so glad that he had thiought twice about warning the queen, if Robert had died his family would be at her mercy, and Lannisters had little. The Tyrells and The Reach were powerful and wealthy, and he would need their support if he was to go against the Lannisters. That didn't mean he enjoyed small-talking with them. Part of him wondered if that was why his father had looked South for brides for his sons. "A fair point, Lord Tyrell." He said with a nod. "I will bring it up with the Small Council...or perhaps you can." He knew Mace would take the statement for what it was, a small show of support. "Have you seen my son? I want to make sure he hasn't wandered off somewhere."

Mace scanned the room, and then laughed. "Over by the bards." He said, gesturing politely. "Speaking to my Margaery."

Ned followed the gesture from the rotund Southron lord, and found himself almost stymied at the sight. Robb had been awkward most of the night, but he seemed to have relaxed, carrying on some conversation with the girl he remembered from Renly's locket. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Tyrell." He said with a brief nod, heading in that direction.

"...and then Grey Wind tumbled out the window, ham hock in his mouth!" Robb was relating, his mother's smile on his lips.

The girl laughed, trying to politely smother the sound behind her hand. "I should like to meet him sometime."

"I think he'd like that." Robb said, a bit nervously. "I walk in the godswood every morning with him at first light until breakfast."

"Perhaps I will see the two of you there some morning." Margaery said with a small smile.

"I think we'd like that." Robb replied, losing his nervousness and giving her a larger smile.

"Robb." Eddard said, moving to his son's side. "I believe your sister wants to congratulate you."

Robb wanted to complain, but nodded instead. "Of course, father. I hope I do get to see you again, Lady Margaery." He bowed formally to her.

"I'm sure you will." Margaery said in reply. "It's been a pleasure, Lord Robb." She then turned and curtsied to Eddard. "Lord Hand."

"Lady Margaery." Eddard replied, politely.

It had taken only a little convincing on Margaery's part to ask her brother to take her to the godswood the morning after the balland he had shook his head as both Margaery and Robb pretended that it was a coincidence that they had met, just as they did every morning for the next month, until finally, a month exactly after they had first met, in the shade of the godswood, Robb leaned down and kissed her.

Margaery's lips were soft and pliant beneath his, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears as his hand lifted to touch the skin of her face. She whispered his name, and he gently drew away, looking into her bright eyes.

"Robb, I..." She started, but then that quickly, Robb found himself waking in his bed, the dream having dissolved into nothingness with the break of day.

* * *

With the Lannister army in shambles and the Riverlands freed and slowly repairing themselves, Robb found himself immersed politics instead of war. His Uncle Edmure had been kind enough to allow him to use Riverrun as a base of operation, and as he sat in the Great Hall of his mother's childhood home, surrounded by his councillors he felt more out of his element than he ever had on the battlefield. He had watched his father deal with petitions often, but this was something else altogether. Especially since he had become aware of the tensions between some of his men and the Tyrell detachment. That had become even more obvious over the days since word of Mace Tyrell's imminent arrival, and even more so as Margaery had moved her people's tents further toward the castle, behind the invisible lines.

Maege had been utterly amused by ' _the little southron rose poking her kin in the eye_ ' and heartily enabled it, letting the Tyrell host pick up the Mormont flank. The green and gold had all but disappeared, replaced with blue and white with the help of the grateful ladies of the Riverlands, and if the knights were a little more grizzled and hardened, well, then it came from two hard-fought and hard-won victories. The Karstarks had taken up the other side, leaving the appearance that the North had embraced Margaery and her men fully. It wasn't the truth. He had heard more than enough muttering in the past few days about the Tyrells in general and Margaery in particular to set his teeth. Grey Wind seemed equally annoyed, and was more attached to the curly-haired lady than ever. He didn't begrudge it. He was safe in Riverrun, surrounded by family and defended by his men, while Margaery had only reluctant allies. If anything, he was glad that his direwolf liked her so much. Everything was at an odd peace, until the night the Tyrells had been spotted, some days later than expected and dragging a great golden wheelhouse with them as if going to the Riverlands for a pleasure cruise and not in the midst of a war.

The lookout who had announced it to the council, looked perplexed. "I don't know why they would bring a thing like that. Not gonna be much use in a fight."

"Margaery?" Lady Maege asked, looking to the young woman, who had gone several shades paler, and looked as though she was caught between abject terror and elation. "Any idea what this is?"

Margaery nodded mechanically, clearing her throat. "Our king's message angered my father, he probably railed about it, and when she heard, it convinced Grandmother that he was worth meeting."

One of the young Riverlords, whose father had been lost in the lean, snorted. "What's some dried up old woman got that a detachment like that would slow themselves down for her?"

Margaery raised an eyebrow. "No one in House Tyrell is stupid enough to oppose the Queen of Thorns except my father, and she sets him back often enough for it. Her tongue is sharper than Valyrian steel, and she knows well how to use it against every weak spot you do not realise you have. The fact that she is willing to come this way to meet the king means that she's been impressed."

"Like you." Wylis Manderley noted.

Margaery let out a musical laugh of surprise and amusement, taking everyone with the sound. "Ser Wylis, you flatter me! I learned much from my grandmother and her lessons, but I assure you, however sharp you think my tongue, my grandmother makes me look like the gentlest rose in the garden."

The northern lords all shared a look at this, some looking amused, others looking terrified of what such a thing could mean. Whether they liked her or hated her, no one could say that Margaery Tyrell had not made an impact in war councils.

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing, Lady Margaery?" Robb asked, curious.

"It means she's taking you seriously." Margaery said, after a moment. "You're an unknown she wants to understand, beyond that...we won't know until she arrives." Margaery's hands fluttered nervously. "It does mean, though, that you will have to deal with both my father and grandmother, which can be a delicate situation." Her nose wrinkled up. "My father is in charge of House Tyrell, of course, but Grandmother is the power, and shrewder of the two."

Robb nodded, taking in this information, feeling once again out of his depth. He was far from an expert in political maneuvering, and he knew it. "All right. They are still a day's ride away, but when they arrive I want the council prepared. We are going to show them that we are not just playing at war, or at being a kingdom. For now, though, you are dismissed."

* * *

Margaery felt slightly adrift and as she was quickly becoming accustomed, unsure of where the pieces lie on the political battlefield. In a strange way, it had been simpler when all she was fighting was the opinions of the northmen. Instead, she found herself going through her camp and informing everyone of the fact that her grandmother was with the Tyrell force approaching. It was humorous, if sad, to see the way the men reacted. No one wanted to gather the attention of the Queen of Thorns. She spent many hours reassuring various scouts, blacksmiths, and even a few of the men that everything would be fine. She was unsure of how effective her reassurances were, especially when knights took to polishing their armour.

Could she blame them? She was just as nervous, and she knew for a fact that Olenna's journey had to be at least in part due to her. She hadn't lied to Robb, Olenna wouldn't have made the journey _just_ for her, but Margaery was certain that her grandmother wanted to check on her wayward rose. A few weeks ago she may have welcomed the idea with open arms, but she knew she had been changing, adapting, and while she was no-where near a Northern girl, she wasn't quite the Southron maid she had been when she had left either.

She returned to her tent, and dismissed her maidens, hoping for some peace, and with it some clarity. She washed her face and prepared for bed. But when she turned toward it, she found a giant direwolf lying on it, tongue lolling out in amusement.

Margaery laughed despite herself, and sat down beside Grey Wind, running her fingers through his fur. "Can I ask you not to bite my grandmother?" She asked, well aware of how protective he was of her. "Her tongue is sharp, but she means well enough."

Grey Wind lifted his head to look at her, and then blew a puff of air, before putting his head onto her lap.

Margaery carded her fingers through the fur on his head, and sighed.

* * *

Robb fell off to sleep a bit too easily for a rebellion leader, but he knew Riverrun was well-protected and the crown did not lie easily on his brow. He didn't know if he was hoping or dreading dreams, after the night before, it was hard to think on what might have been, but sleep came easily anyway.

For a moment, he was almost relieved to realise that he was dreaming with Grey Wind. Usually, it was a time when he could let go of all his concerns as his faithful companion ranged and hunted. He had been frightened of the dreams at first, recalling the tales of wargs recounted by Old Nan next to the fires, or as she tucked them into bed. He had found the dreams in no way disturbing, however, and often wished he could have discussed them with Jon. He wondered if he and Ghost had the same sort of bond, or if Bran could run again dreaming of Summer.

Tonight, however, was not a dream of the hunt. It took only moments for him to realise it, as he felt gentle fingertips through fur, and his mind recognised what Grey Wind's eyes were seeing. It seemed he would have no respite from the Tyrells, though this pain was bittersweet and all the more keenly felt.

"Grandmother doesn't understand the Tyrell words, or the badge." Margaery was saying, her voice soft. "She mocks it, knowing the Redwynes words of ' _We Crush Underfoot_ ,' she thinks a rose growing strong weak as a sigil, compared to the Lannister lion, or even the Stark direwolf."

Grey Wind rumbled, happily and to Robb, a little proudly.

Margaery laughed. "I know well how fierce you are." She reassured him. "But do you know why I chose the words ' _Thrive Boldly North_ ' and the blue rose, rather than some fearsome motto or a creature almost as fearsome as you?"

Robb was just as curious as Grey Wind, who shifted his head to tilt up at Margaery curiously, and if Robb were awake, he would have blushed to see her attired so in just her nightclothes. Grey Wind had no capacity to blush, gods be good.

Margaery chuckled, and scratched behind Grey Wind's ears. "Because the truth is that roses can wend where they will, and it is not difficult to grow them in The Reach, which is fertile and green with all sorts of life. I worried on my way here that it may not be enough to have grown strong, though. I had heard stories of Aunt Lynesse frozen by the north, and even Bethany Redwyne, rebuffed by the Blackfish and when Ro... when _the king_...told me of northern blue roses, it seemed a sign that while I may have grown strong at Highgarden, it's possible for a rose to change its colours and really thrive here, with these people, with this king."

Robb was unsure of whether he was pleased or annoyed by her cutting off of his name. It did mean that she thought of him as Robb more than his title, by why to change her own speech in her private confidences? Well, confidence a little less private this night He felt badly for it, but he wanted to hear more, and he and Grey Wind whined despite himself at her insistence on returning to just his title.

"Don't _do_ that." Margaery said, putting her face into the direwolf's fur as if it were merely a large but faithful dog. "I know what I want and what I feel well enough, but we are at _war_. Grandmother always told me that my large heart would be my downfall. I won't let it be his. I'll grow new thorns if I must. He is a king, and we are no longer southrons, but not yet northerners to them either. The transplant is fragile yet, and I must tend it to ensure the roots don't die." She shifted on the bed, and pushed gently on his side, and Grey Wind gave a great huff and moved to the end of the bed, curling up on her feet, as she closed her eyes and went to sleep. Robb probably should have made Grey Wind leave, but he wasn't very good at controlling his direwolf dreams, and as badly as he felt, listening in on Margaery's private musings, at least he had learned something.


	10. Fools and Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olenna Tyrell travels with a company to broker an alliance with Robb Stark to name him King of the North, Trident, and Reach, but Robb has plans of his own.

Olenna Tyrell hated travelling with her oaf of a son, too much like his father by half. Oh, she cared for him, of course, all mothers do, but she could not be overly affectionate with such a lump of _stupidity_. He had gone against her advice, siding with Renly Baratheon, because he couldn't stand up to his own son. That would have been fine, if Renly had a single claim on the throne, or Loras had been thinking with the head on his shoulders as she had tried to teach him when all he wanted to do was play with swords and sticks. Instead, the Grand Oaf of Highgarden had been led further into a folly by a boy being led around by his cock, and had lost Olenna her most precious rose.

At first, Olenna had thought that Margaery had taken leave of her senses when she had figured out what the girl had done. Soon enough, however, she saw the lay of the land, especially after the capture of Tywin Lannister. The entire kingdom had buzzed for weeks about how Stark had come in the night, captured Tywin, and left not a trace. The heralded commander, the grizzled old lion himself taken from his tent, without a drop of blood being spilt. It had endeared Robb Stark to the people of Westeros, and from Dorne northward everyone spoke in whispers about the Young Wolf. Men and women talked about how like his father he was, honourable and steadfast and refusing to shed unnecessary blood. Some claimed him to have supernatural power,who had been able to slip in and out of the Lannister encampment and bewitch everyone into sleep. Olenna dismissed these. She saw a far more subtle and human hand in this. Margaery would have needed them to cross the Trident, and Northmen were not known for their subtlety.

Olenna had heard all the way at Bitterbridge, how the monstrous Lion-King had roared, had stomped his feet, demanding Robb Stark's head on a platter. He had very nearly killed his estranged fiancee, before his mother had stepped in, reminding him that Sansa Stark was a valuable hostage. That had only dampened his rage, and he had taken it out on the people singing and speaking of the Young Wolf who sought to free them from the golden lions and the cruel stags. It was stupid. The boy would never get the people on his side in such a way.

She had suspected the Young Wolf to be just as stupid, and when Mace had sent his message to him, she had expected Northmen to come marching down to the Mander as though Mace had offered free ale at a brothel. Either Robb Stark was less stupid than most of his gender, or he actually listened to cooler heads. Catelyn Tully had always been _dull_ , but not stupid. Perhaps this son listened to his mother. Hers would have been far better off if he wasn't such a self-confident lush who was sure he knew better than his dear mother, after all.

Finally the wheelhouse came to a stop, and Mace was useful for once as he helped her from the carriage. The war-camp surrounding Riverrun was immense, with standards and sigils flying, but she did not see the golden rose anywhere. It was a mystery, at least until they were greeted by a knight. Olenna didn't know his name, he had been a fourth son of one of the Houses of the Reach, and while stable and stalwart, generally unimpressive in tourney. Mace didn't seem to recognise him at all, probably due to the fact that there wasn't a sigil or identifying colour on him. He never did his own ruling, leaving petitioners to Willas and the Maester.

"Lord Mace, Lady Olenna. I have been asked to take you and yours to the Great Hall. I'm afraid there is a war council going on, but I was told to take you and your seniors there as soon as you arrived." The Reach knight said, with a deep bow.

"The king could have at least been here to meet us." Mace grumbled, gesturing for Loras and Randyll Tarly to follow him, as he followed the knight.

"Don't be ridiculous." Olenna snapped. "A man waging a war has more to concern himself with than guests that stand on ceremony."

* * *

Margaery was frustrated, the war council had been going on for hours, and she would like nothing more than to shove Lord Tallhart's dagger up his nose. The Ironborn had struck along the coast of the North, and many of the lords were panicking.

"We need to ransom the Lannisters and head back north to defend our homes!" Lord Cerwyn was saying. "We can't do nothing!"

"I've already sent my best sailors to Rillwater Crossing to see what ships the Glenmores might have had that we can use against the Ironborn." Margaery argued. "We can't ransom the Lannisters yet, or leave Riverrun undefended!"

"What's southerners know about fighting the Ironborn?" Tallhart argued.

Margaery resisted the urge to tell the man he was an idiot. "The Shield Islands are often attacked by the Ironborn. We know how to deal with them."

"Didn't fare too well during the Robert's Rebellion." Theon argued. "The Ironborn took them easily." He turned to Robb. "Look, let me go. They'll listen to me. I can broker peace with my father."

Robb groaned, running a hand over his head. "Theon, I've Jon at the wall. I need you here with me. I need a brother I can trust at my back, and I need you in command of the archers."

Theon shook his head. "That's just it, Robb, I'm _not_ your brother, I'm the eldest surviving son and heir of Balon Greyjoy. I can get my father to stop this."

"We don't know that Balon is still in control." Margaery pointed out. "It could be Euron or Victarion doing the raids."

"And if it is the old squid, he's doing it whether you're on the mainland or not!" Maege pointed out. "As far as he knows, the king could send him your head for this, and he's done it anyway!"

* * *

Olenna held up a hand when the unknown knight would have announced them, settling in beside her son and grandson to watch for a moment. She wanted to see what this boy had, and this was a good way to do it. Unfortunately, the large direwolf at his feet barked, causing everyone to look up.

"Lord Mace Tyrell, Lady Olenna Tyrell, and Ser Loras Tyrell of House Tyrell of Highgarden and Lord Randyll Tarly of House Tarly, Your Grace." The knight said with a bow.

"Your Grace," Mace said, bowing in the most overexaggerated manner he could with his girth. Olenna bowed her head, supporting herself more than necessary on her cane. "Thank you for seeing us."

"Welcome, my lords." The King in the North said, with a confident nod. "I was intrigued by your raven, Lord Tyrell."

"I have many men, Your Grace." Mace said easily. "Good fighters with skill on the battlefield, The Reach offers many resources that you may need, food for your soldiers, not the least thereof."

"I have seen Tyrell men on the battlefield, and I do grant that they are quite skilled." Robb allowed. "And food and men are always welcome, but what would you want from this, Lord Tyrell?"

"With The North, The Riverlands, and the strength of The Reach, your army would be unstoppable, Your Grace. Joffrey is...disturbed, and Stannis in the thrall of a Red Priestess who burns people alive. They would ruin Westeros." He tilted his head in askance. "I would hope that we could create an alliance on more than words, and that you would remember us. I humbly offer up my daughter's hand."

There was a loud snort from somewhere among the assembled lords, Olenna suspected Greatjon Umber, and a chuckle ran through a few of them at that, making her raise an eyebrow in interest.

"Your offer is generous, my Lord." The young king said, a little wryly. "And were it your place to make it, I would probably accept."

Mace froze, as though the king's northern winter had entered the room in a torrent. "Your Grace?" He managed.

"Lady Margaery came north and made it possible for us to cross Ruby Ford and capture Tywin Lannister. The men she brought with her have fought and died for the north, and as such she was given Rillwater Crossing, and she and her people made the northern House Tyrell, and being independent of Highgarden, her hand is not yours to offer." Robb explained, hands wide, as if he could not help that Mace had been too late. "I was in debt for her aid, and could hardly leave her without House or home."

Olenna had thought that in her old age she had seen everything, but this shocked even her. She felt strangely proud and still somewhat disappointed in her granddaughter. If only she had _waited_...but if she had, well, who knew where they would be now? At least now she understood why the knight who had introduced them had stressed Highgarden, there was a new House Tyrell.

"What?!" Mace demanded, his face going redder than his beard as his chins shook. "I've never heard of such a thing! The outrage! My daughter is a daughter of Highgarden! The Rose of the South!"

There was a shift in the back of the war council, and Olenna's eyes narrowed in inspection as Margaery stood, her hair done much more simply, in a sort of melding of northern and southern styles, dressed in a white and blue dress. "I'm afraid I've changed my petals, Father." She said, carefully, "but thank you for the thought."

Mace took a few red-faced, angry steps toward the group, only to be stopped when the direwolf by the king got to its feet, lowered it' head, and growled at him. All the blood rushed from his face and he took several steps back. "We'll meet in battle for this offense!" Mace said, still retreating. "We can still side with the Lannisters!"

Loras reacted to that violently, shaking his head and turning on his father. "I will not raise a sword against my _sister!_ "

Mace turned on his son, then. "You'll do what I tell you, boy! I listened when you said we should side with Renly, and now look where we are!"

"Oh, be silent you old fool!" Olenna snapped, done with letting her son handle this meeting in such a fashion. She should have nursed him herself, perhaps he'd be less of an encumbrance. She preferred not to correct him quite so publicly, but she couldn't let his pricked pride control the future of her descendants.

" _Mother_!" Mace gasped in shock.

"Don't 'Mother,' me. I'm not about to let you run House Tyrell into ruin because of your pride." Olenna snapped. "I told you allying with Renly was a fool's errand, but you didn't listen. You wanted a crown for Margaery and now you've lost your youngest rose."

"Grandmother…" Margaery said, in a placating tone.

"Don't coddle the man, Margaery." Olenna snapped. "I coddled him too much in his boyhood."

The old woman straightened up slightly on her cane, and with a bow, asked in a calm, polite tone, so unlike her earlier outburst, that some might think they had imagined it. "What do you see for an alliance, Your Grace?"

* * *

Robb smiled at the older woman. Even with the warnings, Olenna Tyrell had surprised him. He could see why Margaery looked up to her, though he was glad Margaery's sharp edges had never turned on him in such a manner. He had been considering his plan since the night Mace's raven first arrived, meditating over it in his spare time and during his trips to the godswood for guidance. "I believe, Lady Tyrell, that a king should be known to his people, and know them in turn, much as any good lord. As such, I have no interest in the Iron Throne, or the other five kingdoms. Two is the most that I can possibly rule in a way that befits a true king."

Olenna's eyes narrowed, and Robb knew, however infirm she looked, her mind was tighter than a steel trap hidden in the snow. "Should The Reach ally with us, give us men and fight the war of independence with us, The Kingdoms of the North and the Trident will recognise Lord Mace or Lord Willas as King of the Reach, and aid in any way we can to ensure it retains its independence as well. We will have open trade between our kingdoms, providing aid in surviving the coming winter for both of us."

"At what cost?" Olenna asked, eyes narrowing. The deal sounded far too good to be true. Either way the Tyrells would be fighting in this war, and an alliance with The North and the Riverlands would be useful, if his plan of independence succeeded. "You have already pointed out that we cannot offer you the hand of what would be our future princess."

Robb tented his fingers seriously. "I want Ser Loras to join House Tyrell of Rillwater Crossing, along with a collection of hedge knights, and second and third sons from your noble houses who would be willing to join with the men already sworn to it, as well as fostering between various houses of The North, The Riverlands, and The Reach. It's not a marriage, no, but it would keep both interests involved between the kingdoms."

Margaery let out a stifled gasp of surprise, and Robb hid a smile. He had not run his idea by her, had not really run his idea by anyone, but he could see only upsides. Dorne would surely welcome a split of the seven kingdoms one more, which left only the Stormlands and the Westerlands to worry about, since The Vale had declared neutrality, and given those were the lands of his Aunt Lysa, who he did not think would strike against him.

...And, _well_ , if Ser Loras joined Margaery's House Tyrell, that took care of the problem of having no Tyrell left to lead it, were she to marry.


	11. Comedy of Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the meeting with the Highgarden Tyrells, Margaery leaves a confused Robb behind with Catelyn. The King of the North overhears something that upsets him and Roose Bolton makes a move.

Roose Bolton looked down at the letter, and a smile crossed his thin lips. The Lannister seal was a bit obvious, but he wouldn’t have expected any better from a boy playing at being a king. Boys playing king, it was a joke, but Roose could play one against the other easily enough. Robb Stark had to learn the consequences of dismissing him, ignoring his ideas and letting his Southern whore speak to him the way she did. The Starks had always been pompous and self-righteous, claiming to respect Northern traditions, but they forbade the Boltons to punish as they saw fit. They forgot in their arrogance the Red Kings who had overthrown Winterfell more than once.

He would make sure Robb Stark would learn, even if he had to use a mewling lion to do it. He would be the new Warden of the North, and when things had  fallen about the other boy king’s ears, a Red King would rule once more. He held the letter over the flame of a candle on the table, until the damning words were no more than ash and the tongues of flame licked his fingers.

* * *

Margaery didn’t know whether she was elated, frustrated, or irritated. She _knew_ why Robb had asked for her brother to join her house. She had explicitly told him there was no Tyrell in her entourage strong enough to take over the house. Loras could do it, and as the third son, if he was a member of her House he wouldn’t have to worry about competing with Garlan in the future for inheritance and land. She could see the chance to be _Robb’s wife_ creeping closer, and that hope actually _hurt._ She couldn’t let herself believe it would happen, not with her father striding around a camp nearby, bringing everyone’s attention _again_ to the fact that she was different, that she was not of the north. If he said yes -- and he would when Grandmother finished with him -- Loras would be joining her house. Her brother. Her _older_ brother. It was already hard enough to get and keep the respect of the Northern lords, but now she would have to fight her own men slightly, as Loras was older and male. They would want to follow his orders on instinct. She just had to hope that the loyalty that had led them this far would hold out.

When the war council ended, Margaery did not linger as she usually did, there was much to be done, and her irritation was too close to the surface. She had to regain control of her emotions first. She left the hall with the rest of the Northern delegation, making sure it was obvious where her loyalty still lay, pausing only when Dacey put a hand on her shoulder. “Dacey,” she said, falling in step with her friend.

“Training?” Dacey asked, clearly amused at Margaery’s unusually cool attitude and unwillingness to stay behind, leaving a whining direwolf and slightly perplexed looking king in her wake.

“Absolutely.” Margaery answered in relief, wrapping an arm around Dacey’s and leading her back towards her encampment. Dacey was always armed and ready, Margaery was not. “You can help me into my new armour. Poor Armin worked so quickly to get it ready.”

“Probably because you were an idiot and went out to battle without a shield and got yourself hurt.” Dacey replied with amusement instead of ire.

“It was too heavy.” Margaery reminded her, with a chuckle, drawing her into the tent.

* * *

Robb didn’t know what he did wrong, and sat at his war table, face scrunched in thought. He had to have done _something_ wrong, why else would Margaery have left the way she did, without even reaching out to pet Grey Wind goodbye? He had only been trying to arrange it so they could be together. He had told her that he would fight for her, after all, and she loved her brother...so why did she seem unhappy? Perhaps she was not interested in him? He couldn’t believe that, not after what she had said about wishing they had met before he was a king, not when she whispered to Grey Wind about her heart. He ran a hand through his hair as he mulled over his thoughts.

Catelyn Stark watched her soon from the doorway, amused and sad all at once. She had known for ages that there was something between her son and the Tyrell girl, and she had a feeling it was not the Ironborn raids that had her son looking so ruffled. “What has you worrying so, Robb?”

Robb started at his mother’s voice, and his cheeks coloured in the same way they did when he had sneaked out to the practise yard with Jon as a child too young for it. “Politics.”

Catelyn smiled and moved over to sit by her son. “Yes, the politics of marriage are always interesting.” She said lightly. “Especially during a war.”

“I didn’t say…” Robb protested.

“You didn’t have to.” Catelyn answered. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. I’ve seen the way Grey Wind treats her like she’s his mistress as much as you are his master. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Robb seemed to sink in his chair, running his hand through his hair again. “I don’t know what I did. She...she didn’t even pat Grey Wind goodbye.” He sounded lost.

Catelyn shook her head at her son. How was it that he could lead an entire rebellion, and still be so clueless about matters of the heart? Then again, she supposed that they were still quite young. “Robb, if you had gone to King’s Landing instead of Arya, and your father had left her in charge, and then you returned...who would the men prefer to listen to, you or Arya?”

Robb opened his mouth to answer, and Catelyn saw the blocks fall into place. “Fucking hells.”

“Language, Robb.” Catelyn said instinctively.

“But her men abandoned their House to follow her.” Robb said, desperate to make it better. “Surely they’ll still follow.”

“Probably.” Catelyn allowed easily. “Her men know she cares about them, but it will be awkward.”

“I just wanted…” Robb said slowly. “She said there was no-one strong enough to lead her house if she were my queen. I couldn’t fix the fact that she was from the south, but I thought…”

“Oh Robb.” Catelyn sighed. Her oldest boy. She had thought he had outgrown his impetuousness. “I’m sure it will work out. Everyone will get used to the idea, you all but made a declaration and you didn’t even realise it.”

“I need some sleep.” Robb muttered. “Thank you, Mother.”

“Sleep well.” Catelyn said, kissing his forehead as if he was still a babe.

* * *

If someone had asked Dacey Mormont a year ago if she would be friends with a _Tyrell_ , she would have laughed in their face, but here she was, helping Margaery Tyrell into a new set of armor and trying to get the kind of gossip that Jorelle lived on and she usually ignored.

“At least it’s not as flowery as your brother’s armor.” Dacey teased, inspecting the new plate that Margaery had lain out on her bed as she changed out of her dress and into the thick woolen padding necessary for the real armour. There was a rose emblazoned on it, but just one. “And it looks like it will fit right, which is the most important thing.”

“My brother _is_ the Knight of Flowers.” Margaery said with a laugh. “You should see his palfrey. I embroidered so many flowers onto his livery…”

“And you’re the Young Wolf’s Winter Rose.” Dacey said, almost lightly.

Margaery froze, swallowing hard, as she began the process of strapping into her armour. “I’m not the Young Wolf’s _anything_.” She said, as clearly as possible. “I’m of the South. You hear what they say about me, Dacey.”

“And my Lady Catelyn, The King’s Mother was a Southerner too, but no one would claim her disloyal to her husband or the North.” Dacey pointed out. “Everyone with more than half a wit will know after today he intends you for his queen.”

Margaery shook her head. “He _can’t_ , he _shouldn’t_! Men will desert, it could lose him this war.”

Dacey helped Margaery on with her breastplate and shook her head, going solemn for a moment. “If men desert their vows to their king, than Robb will do as the Starks have done since the days of the First Men. He who casts the judgement shall swing the sword.”

* * *

When Robb opened his eyes, he found himself in Grey Wind, and knew it to be a dream. Apparently his direwolf had either been just annoyed at being ignored by Margaery and he blamed the newcomers -- or more likely, he was investigating the interlopers into what had become his territory. He loped with Grey Wind through the quickly rising camp, amused at the obvious fear of the knights who had never seen a direwolf. He also discovered that the Tyrell soldiers were just as gossipy as his own. He had been paying far more attention to camp gossip since Margaery had shared what many of his men thought of her. His father had always taught him to be above rumour and gossip, but in his position, he had found it valuable.

He learned, for example, that many of the Tyrell knights thought him some sort of magician, though he couldn’t really argue with those who whispered as they saw Grey Wind that he was a warg. He also learned that Loras had been distraught and had to be torn away from the body of Renly Baratheon when the would-be king had died. Several of them thought that he had already taken Margaery as his mistress out of wedlock, that the gift of Rillwater Crossing had been for ‘services rendered,’ and so that his bastards would have a noble name. The mere suggestion made Robb and Grey Wind’s hackles rise, too easily reminded of Jon and offended for both himself and Margaery. He was only slightly placated that many of the older knights dismissed this, citing Eddard Stark’s honour and the way the King of the North had acted, or more commonly, because Lady Margaery seemed to be held in quite high esteem, though there seemed to be an argument as to whether it was her virtue or her intelligence that would keep her from becoming his mistress.

It was almost as he was leaving though, that he heard a discussion that made his blood freeze.

“I’ve missed her kisses, since she left.” One squire was saying to another. “It feels like an age since I’ve seen her.”

The second squire rolled his eyes. “By the Seven, just go ask for her hand! Show her what a Leygood is good at.”

The Leygood sighed. “She’s a Tyrell, I’m a second son of a small house, Arlo. Her father would never accept it.”

Arlo scoffed. “Haven’t you heard? Lady Margaery’s people are blue roses now, instead of gold, like the green and red apples, so her father has nothing to do with it.”

Leygood looked cheered. “Maybe I’ll call on her this evening.”

“Do.” Arlo suggested. “I grow weary of your pining.”

Robb had the sudden feeling of confusion and sadness run over him in chilling slow motion. He forced Grey Wind to lope on, struggling with what he had heard, to the point that it actually woke him. He didn’t want to believe what he had heard. He _knew_ Margaery felt something for him, or at least he thought he knew. Still, the conversation haunted him and she remembered with sudden dizziness her remark that she would marry a second or third son. Had he misconstrued her affection so entirely? Was that why she was cross? Had he ruined her chance at happiness as much as the overheard conversation had ruined his?

He needed a walk.

* * *

Margaery and Dacey still preferred to train out from under the eye of the other soldiers: Dacey because others would criticise her teaching and Margaery out of fear of making a fool of herself. It was easier to put away her fear of being judged when it was just the two of them. She knew vanity had very little place in war, but she needed all the focus she could get, shifting self-defence training to active attack was difficult, and incorporating new techniques and becoming confident in them took time. She knew she wasn’t a standout in battle and could never hope to be, but becoming better was required. Dacey still got the upper hand on her regularly, though she was becoming better at pressing her advantages and realising what they were when she saw them, but still struggled with not becoming distracted.

Thus, it was a miracle when she didn’t notice the king’s approach right away, only after Dacey had stopped in respect. She actually ended up tipping herself onto the ground at the sudden stop, realising in embarrassment that her near fall had been seen by the last person she would have wanted to see it.

“Your Grace,” Dacey said seriously, with a bow as the king approached the burned out field where they were training. “Is something the matter?”

Margaery flushed red as she straightened, and attempted a bow that was nowhere as smooth as Dacey had done. “Your Grace,” she echoed, offering him a smile.

“Dacey.” Robb said with a nod. “No, nothing. I just wanted to stretch my legs.” He paused and offered Margaery a slight inclination of the head. “Lady Tyrell. I’ll let you return to your training.”

Margaery watched, a little gobsmacked as he walked away. Why was Dacey just ‘ _Dacey_ ,’ and since when was she ‘ _Lady Tyrell_ ’ instead of ‘ _Lady Margaery_ ,’ or just ‘ _Margaery_?’

She sat down hard on the ground, all grace forgotten, and put her head down in a panic. “Oh gods, it’s happened.”

Dacey wasn’t sure what had just happened, but went over to her friend and put an arm on her shoulder. “What’s happened? What was that?”

“He’s met my family and he’s regretting asking for Loras.” Margaery burbled, taking deep breaths and trying to keep her composure. “Grandmother was too sharp at father, he’s afraid I’d be the same and doesn’t want henpecked, or...or father’s bluster and general manner offended him and put him off...maybe Father said _no_ ...or people are thinking him weaker or a fool for choosing Loras...or the men are fighting with the Highgarden troops and he doesn’t think it worth the hassle...oh gods...why did I let myself _hope_ , even a little?”

Dacey opened her mouth and shut it again, entirely unsure of how to deal with a Margaery approaching hysterics, especially since she had less understanding of what was going on. “I’m sure it’s none of that, Margaery.” She, however, didn’t have a good reason for what it actually was. “Maybe he thought you didn’t want to marry him after all when you left the council the way you did.”

Margaery groaned, and got to her feet. “I’ve got to fix this.” She murmured, heading in the direction the king had left.

Dacey waited a moment, debating with herself. They probably should have privacy, but at the same time, she was invested in it, and had been watching from the sidelines from the beginning. “Just in case.” She excused herself, and followed after.

Robb had pulled on every bit of his feelings of duty and right to walk away. As he walked back into and through the camp, he noticed the difference in the soldiers. Somehow he realised that he had morphed from commander to king without visible provocation and it was disconcerting people. He was trying to calm himself, to thaw the cold he had wrapped himself in, but he was having some difficulty. He knew if he let it down, the hurt would return, and he wasn’t at all sure how to deal with that.

He took a sharp right toward Margaery’s camp when he heard Grey Wind snarling, unsure of what had happened. He hadn’t sought out his direwolf when he had gone on his walk, but that had been hours ago, as he had walked the entirety of Riverrun’s keep, the camp itself, and then out to the surrounding fields before coming back into the camp. Whatever it was, he knew he wouldn’t like it; an unhappy Grey Wind meant an unhappy Robb.

He almost groaned at the scene before him when he came upon Grey Wind at Margaery’s tent, keeping a group of Highgarden soldiers at bay. The lead of which was the Leygood squire, though quite pale and even less confident than he had been. “Ni...nice doggie.” He said, shakily.

Robb snorted at that, and the northern lords who had gathered to unobtrusively watch at the southerners’ trouble chuckled.

“Where’s the Greatjon?” Ser Garth murmured from beside Torrhen Karstark. “He should be able to show him what the _doggie_ can do.”

“Just get your sword out!” One of the Highgarden troops suggested. “That’ll move it off right quick.”

“Like to see you try!” Someone shouted. “Go on, try and move the _doggie_.”

“What is going on here!” Margaery’s voice cut through the din, as she approached her tent, only to find a very strange scene.

“I believe Grey Wind is objecting to an unknown male near your tent.” Dacey observed.

Margaery rolled her eyes, and walked over, unconcerned about the direwolf who let out another snarl when, bolstered by the fact that Margaery had not been harmed, the squire tried to take another step forward. Instead, she had peeked into her tent, where her ladies seemed torn as to whether to approach the door with an angry direwolf on the other side. “Nyssa, your swain is calling for you.”

She then pulled her head from the tent, and looked back at the group of Highgarden low soldiers and squires. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around Grey Wind’s large neck. “Thank you for guarding my tent.” She crooned to the direwolf, who let out a happy sound, his ears perking up at the praise.  She released him giving him a little pat. “You see the knight with the golden rose on his shoulders? That’s Horas Tyrell, Nyssa’s brother. I think she’ll be well-chaperoned.”

* * *

Suddenly, everything made sense for Robb, and he was glad everyone was watching Margaery, because he felt himself blush. Usually it was Desmera with whom he dealt, and he had forgotten that one of her handmaidens was, like her, a Tyrell. The squire had not been talking about Margaery at all, and he had acted like a direwolf with a thorn in his paw. He had to find some way to apologise, some way to make everything right between them, and he wasn’t sure how. A new problem churning in his mind, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the castle -- not realising that Margaery had seen him leave, or that she had made a move toward him, Grey Wind in tow.

Margaery wanted to apologise, to clear the air with Robb for how she had left the council, to explain all of the tension she was feeling with everything going on. The fact that her father was here, the fact that her brother would belong to her house, the relief that he was alive, the knowledge that her grandmother had likely already divined her feelings for the King in the North, everything was a mess. She had her hand on Grey Wind’s neck, and took a step toward the king, but when he saw it he turned away, and despite every lesson she had ever learned, her face crumbled.

Dacey, quick to see it, had stepped in front of her and invited her to share the night with her, so they could finish their conversation, and Margaery accepted, turning toward the neighboring Mormont camp as if nothing was wrong, but when she went to sleep, after talking with Dacey and having a cry she hid from Maege, she buried her head in Grey Wind’s neck and murmured: “At least I still have your favour.”

* * *

Roose Bolton quietly undid the latch on one the furthest horse gate, as his instructions had bade him, and nodded to the two of his men who were on guard that night. They didn’t know he was sending them to their deaths, but they were too loyal to the cause and not loyal enough to him. Some moves require sacrifice, after all.

He had one more stop to make tonight and two men that he would have to kill himself in order to free the lions and appease the lion cub and his bloodthirsty mother. Only one Stark stood between him and the return of the Red Kings.

* * *

 

Margaery woke to a whining Grey Wind pulling on her chemise. She sat up in confusion and blinked at him, before dread filled her. Something must be wrong with Robb. “Is something wrong with Robb?” She asked the direwolf, who barked in the affirmative, and took several steps toward the entrance of the tent.

“Dacey!” Margaery hissed, shaking her friend, and throwing on her shoes. “Dacey!”

Dacey woke with a start unsure of what was going on. “What is it?”

“Grey Wind says there’s something wrong with Robb.” Margaery explained in a rush. “I’ve got to find out.”

“I’ll gather some of the men.” Dacey agreed, about to tell Margaery to get her own, but the silly girl just ran out of the tent, still in her smallclothes, with only a dagger in her hand. “...He might just be aching a bit from being in his cups at dinner…”

Margaery followed Grey Wind into the keep, not caring what anyone who could see her might think. She was doing her best to keep up with the direwolf, and found herself wishing that she had shooed him when he stayed with her, but he so hated being cooped up in the castle, and she had been upset. None of it would mean anything, however, if Robb died.

They raised enough of a ruckus that as Grey Wind clawed at the door, Catelyn Stark and the Blackfish both emerged from their rooms, just in time to see Margaery wrench open the door.

The man standing over the bed was holding a greatsword, the steel glinting as he loomed over the sleeping King of the North, and Margaery hadn’t time or capacity to think. “No!” She shouted, not caring if it were honourable or not, stabbing blindly with her dagger at the man’s back.

The man gasped, whirling around as the noise woke the king, dropping the unwieldy sword that was too big for him, and grabbing a shortsword from his belt and stabbing at the woman who had interrupted him, just as a direwolf’s jaw clamped on his arm.

Margaery looked down at the steel sticking in her, a little surprised that it didn’t hurt, and then up at Robb, who was standing there, sword in his hand, and a horrified look on his face. In that moment, the assassin bleeding on the floor with the direwolf on top of him didn’t matter. Robb was okay. She smiled at him, and then it all went black.


	12. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the attack people react differently and Robb has to try and focus on keeping his army from falling to pieces from suspicions.

“ _...What the fuck?!_ ” Dacey hadn’t really anticipated finding anything wrong, except maybe Margaery holding the king’s head out of a chamberpot. Still, she had gone for a few of her men, and sent others out to check the perimeter and the rest of the camp. They were deep in their own territory, at the King’s Mother’s own childhood home. They should have been safe, and yet…

Margaery was standing there with a sword in her gut, Robb was staring at her horrified, a greatsword lying on the ground, while Grey Wind was snarling and angrily dispatching an intruder. What had she missed? The Blackfish had his hand on his sword, and Catelyn her hand over her mouth all staring at the scene before them.

“Fetch the Maester.” She ordered Lyren, the closest guard to her. before turning to the other men. “The rest of you, sound the alarms, search the castle there may be more.”

* * *

 Robb wasn’t sure how it had happened, or even what had happened. He had drank more at dinner than he was accustomed to, trying to prevent himself from dreaming. He had gone to bed as normal, if a bit unsteadily, and the next thing he knew, he was being wakened by a shout and the sound of steel hitting the floor. All of his drunkenness felt as though it had been burned out in that moment, and he grabbed for the sword he kept by the bed, jumping to his feet, but it was too late.

He wasn’t entirely sure of what was going on, but the strange man in his room had stabbed Margaery, and Grey Wind had taken him down before the befuddled king could even react. As if to make his torment just a little bit worse, as he reflected on how he had treated her in the past day, she _smiled_ at him, and then wobbled, eyes rolling back in her head.

“No!” He cried, reaching out, but he wasn’t close enough, not with the assailant and Grey Wind between them. He let out a small sound of relief as his mother caught her. “Will she be all right?” He demanded, wincing at the way it sounded. He hadn’t meant it to sound quite so accusing.

“I’ll see to her, Robb.” Catelyn said in a calm voice. “Dacey’s already sent someone for the Maester. You have other duties to see to now.”

Robb forced himself to take a deep breath, even as he heard the alarm being raised outside the castle. His mother was right. “Let her here. I don’t want her unguarded, or in the camp until we know who our traitors are.” He couldn’t let himself fall to pieces now. He still had a war to win and _someone_ had managed to infiltrate. He took a deep breath, burying the fear and the rage and the anger at himself below a layer of ice as thick as what would freeze over the wells at Winter Town. He picked up the sword that the man had dropped, and then stopped in shock. He knew this sword. He hefted it into both hands reverently, eyes wide.

“Mother, is this…?" He needed someone else to confirm what he was seeing, because he wasn’t quite sure he could believe it.

Catelyn looked up, and her eyes widened at the greatsword in her son’s hands. “Ice.” She answered, swallowing hard. “That’s Ice.”

“Now we know from where you’ve come.” He said to the dead man under his direwolf. “I suppose the Lannisters thought it would be funny to have me killed with my father’s sword.”

Grey Wind growled at the body, his muzzle soaked with the man’s blood.

“Uncle Brynden, have someone box this up and send it back to the Lannisters with Grey Wind’s regards.” Robb said, anger leaching into of his voice. “Dacey, have someone check the prisoners while you round up the best hunters and trackers and send them after the Lannisters. I’ve no doubt they’ve been freed. Don’t let them get too much  of a head start, but don’t have the party capture them right away...track them, shoot down any ravens and see where they were sent. We have a traitor in our midst. See if they let anything slip.”

Dacey’s answer was overshadowed by the arrival of Riverrun’s aged maester, retrieved from the bedside of Lord Hoster Tully.

“Maester Vyman.” Robb said with a nod. “See to Lady Margaery. Do whatever you need to do.”

“I would never do anything less.” Maester Vyman said, his lined face looking almost affronted.

“He knows.” Catelyn reassured the Maester who had seen to all her childhood ills, as Robb swept out of the room, and she managed to get Margaery Tyrell onto the bed in the room. She just hoped that the girl made it through, because she didn’t know how her son would handle yet another loss, even with all his martial victories, and she had no doubt that if Margaery died, her son would count it a great loss indeed.

* * *

 The camp was in disarrayed alertness, the commanders stirred from their beds with quickness bred by war, and they kept tight holds on their men, even as confusion about the alarms abounded. He walked with great purpose to the center of camp, Ice in his hand. “We have been betrayed.” He declared solemnly.

The crowd was instantly electrified, everyone looking at everyone else, as if they could determine who had turned on them by sight alone. “Your Grace?” Someone called.

“An assassin was let into the castle.” Robb answered, explaining. “Come from the Lannisters to kill me with my father’s sword.” He held up Ice so that all present could see the Valyrian steel greatsword. “The only way they could have gotten in is if someone has betrayed us.”

The crowd milled as people looked suspiciously among their number. “It was the Tyrells!” Someone shouted.

“Lady Margaery wouldn’t!” One of the Forresters called back.

“Then why isn’t she here?” Someone called from House Dustin.

“Her father did mention siding with the Lannisters…” Manderley murmured, looking as though he hated to admit it.

“Enough!” Robb called, silencing the accusations. “Lady Margaery was the first to raise the alarm, and was gravely injured by the assassin after interrupting him.”

“How’d she know?” Someone called from the midst of the crowd. “She must have let him in!”

Dacey was well and truly _done_ with this. “Margaery was in the Mormont camp last night, and with me, until Grey Wind alerted us that something was wrong, if anyone wants to suggest that House Mormont are traitors, I will answer them with steel.” Everyone went silent at that, even the Tyroshi sellswords. No one was stupid enough to doubt the Mormonts, something Dacey had counted on.

“I will have no more accusations.” Robb ordered, swallowing and pulling himself together even more. He had to lead, or his army and his kingdom would fall apart. He could not afford to remain distracted. “This is what the traitor wants, to turn us on each other. Rest assured, they will be discovered and punished, just as the assassin who is returning to the Lannisters in pieces was punished. We must not let ourselves become distracted.”

The camp ratcheted back into high gear, uneasy and more unwilling to relax than they had been since the taking of Riverrun. Robb returned to the Great Hall of Riverrun and his tables, trying to decide who the traitors could be and why. He forced himself to think of nothing other than the crisis facing him, Ice at his side as a constant reminder of his father and his duty to his people. He didn’t know how long he sat there before a scout came in, bearing news.

“The hunters found the Lannisters, they’re heading to The Twins.”

Robb frowned. Walder Frey had not come to his aid like the other Tully bannerman, and he had made no move to demand it. His mother did not trust the man, and he was likely angry that they had crossed The Trident without his say so. It made sense that he would side with the Lannisters. It was something he would have to deal with, but it gave him no answers as to who had let in the assassin. There were no Frey men in camp, unless they were distantly related.

“Thank you.” Robb said with a nod to the messenger. “Ensure that once they enter, no one leaves. If they prefer to be a prisoner in Walder Frey’s halls, so be it...for now.”

The messenger went off again, and for the hundredth time, Robb felt his mind turn to Margaery. Pushing the Lannister marker to The Twins, he got to his feet and headed out of the castle and to the Tyrell camp. He had things to discuss with the Highgarden lord and his mother.

* * *

 “Your Grace.” Mace Tyrell said, respectfully, if less efffusively than he had when he first met the young king. “We heard the alarms. Is there some trouble?” He was seated in a grand golden tent, while his two sons sat on either side. Olenna was sitting nearby, eating grapes and cheese held out by a shaking page.

“Unfortunately.” Robb said, with a nod. “The Lannisters had sent an assassin.” He admitted, frowning. “Grey Wind saw a bloody end to him, but I’m afraid that Lady Margaery was injured by the assassin  in running to my defence.” He swallowed hard, despite himself. “Maester Vyman is with her now, and has been ordered to give her the very best care.”

“How did she come upon it so late at night?” Garlan demanded.

“How badly was she wounded?” Loras pressed.

Robb understood Garlan’s concerns, as well as the canny look in Mace Tyrell’s eyes. “I assure you, Ser Garlan, that your sister has always been chaperoned in my presence.” He said, seriously. “Her handmaidens, cousin Ser Garth, my mother, or Dacey Mormont were always present -- your sister’s honour is intact.” He ran a hand through his hair. “According to Dacey, whom she was with at the time, Grey Wind seemed convinced something was wrong, and she raised the initial alarms, coming to check on me, where she interrupted the Lannister’s sellsword.” He looked away for a moment. “I have not yet had a chance to check with Maester Vyman, but he is skilled at his arts.”

“How did an assassin get into the camp?” Olenna demanded.

“We are still looking to discover that.” Robb admitted. “It seems we have a traitor in our midst. I assure you, however, that I do not suspect you.”

“Where is my daughter now?” Mace demanded. “If necessary, we will have her sent home to Highgarden.”

“Lady Margaery is being treated inside Riverrun’s keep, in my own chambers.” Robb reassured him. “My mother is with her. She is getting the best care possible.”

“Why?” Loras demanded. “Why is _your_ mother with her and not her ladies, why is she in _your_ chambers and not her tent?” It was obvious that while Garlan may have accepted Robb’s statement that Margaery had always been chaperoned, Loras was not so keen to trust Robb’s intentions.

Robb’s expression hardened just slightly. “There has just been an attempt on my life, Ser Loras, which I take quite seriously. As I intend to make your sister my queen, I wanted her surrounded only by those I trust most until she’s healed.”

The tent fell silent in surprise at the young king’s words, no one quite sure what to say, until Olenna had gestured her page away and stood. “Now that the four of you have that hashed out, shall we discuss what happens now?”

* * *

 A cold draft woke Margaery from her sleep, and she groaned, and burrowed further into the blankets on her bed. It was with this motion that she discovered it wasn’t her usual woolen blankets warm against her cheek, but a fur instead. She blinked awake, shaking her head, only to be stopped by warm arms keeping her from moving.

“We don’t have to get up yet, love.”

Margaery froze at that, turning her head to see that she was not in her tent, or indeed, anywhere that she knew. Even more disconcerting, however, was the fact that she was apparently in the King in the North’s bed. “Robb?” She said softly.

That apparently roused him enough for him to open his blue eyes and look at her. “What’s wrong, my pearl?”

“I…” She had to be dreaming, there was no other answer. “Nothing. I just dreamed an assassin came after you.”

Robb sighed, and pulled her tight against him. “That was a long time ago, Margaery, and Grey Wind would never let harm come to either of us.” He nodded slightly to the direwolf, who had lifted his head from his paws to look at the pair of them.

Despite herself and the fact that she knew this was an impossible dream, she relaxed into the embrace, and into the bed, breathing in his scent and running a hand over his back and shoulders to ensure that he was whole and unharmed. “I don’t know what I’d do if any harm came to you.” Margaery confessed. She knew it wasn’t real, but she _wanted_ it.

“Nor I you.” Robb said, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

Margaery swallowed hard, but if she could not say it in her dreams, where could she? She closed her eyes again, trying to memorise the feel of his body pressed against hers, and whispered: “I love you, Robb Stark.”


	13. Lose Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made in the Northern camp while Joffrey celebrates his victory a little prematurely.

It was a long time before Robb returned to his chambers. He had made a mistake, he saw that now. He had won every battle, but things were shifting. They had stayed still too long, stopped fighting the obvious too long. People thought him weak, hiding in castles and perhaps he had been hiding without ever realising it. While they had been sitting the enemy had encroached ever closer, even into his own men. He had to bolster the forces of the north, and with the alliance of the Tyrells, he could ensure the Riverlands were kept safe while he took on the Ironborn. It was all strategy, of course, but there was one element he was unsure of. It was the same element he was always unsure of in one way or another. When he finally did return to his chamber, he nodded to his mother, who gave him a brief smile.

“She’s only sleeping now.” Catelyn reassured him. “Maester Vyman says she’ll be fine. He gave her some milk of the poppy while he worked.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Robb said, relieved. He sat on a chair beside the bed and couldn’t help but compare the pale, drawn face to the first time he had seen Margaery Tyrell, asleep in a wagon of meadowgrass. He would have never thought then that he would be considering marriage to the girl. He had been curious about her, about what had driven her to take his side and oppose her father’s desires to help a region she had never even seen, but he found himself glad again that she had.

“Mother,” he said after a moment. “Margaery said I shouldn’t marry her, that it would hurt the war. Do you think she’s right?”

Catelyn folded her hands on her lap. She didn’t _dislike_ Margaery, in fact, she had grown rather fond of the girl, even if it was just for the way she could make Robb smile in the midst of the bleakness of this war and pull him out of his brooding and grief with only a comment or a laugh. Still, it was a valid question for Robb to ask. “If I said yes, would it change your mind?” She asked, instead of answering. “If I told you the best thing we could do would be for you to make an agreement with Walder Frey, ask him to bend the knee and turn over the Lannisters hiding in his halls in exchange for marrying one of his daughters, would you say yes?”

Robb blinked at his mother, tamping down his gut reaction to fly to his feet at the idea. He had always known that marriages were made for political reasons and while his parents had been happy, things were not always so easy. “I…” He swallowed and shook his head. “If I had to, if I already had an engagement, or it was the only way to save Sansa and Arya or...I _hope_ I would. Not like this, though. Not like it is now.”

Catelyn nodded. “I want you to be happy, Robb...and having all the power of the Reach could win us the war. How could I possibly tell you not to marry a woman willing to put herself between you and an assassin? How could any mother?”

Robb looked moodily down at Margaery at this reminder. “I’ve already messed things up.” He admitted. “She’ll never say yes.”

Catelyn opened her mouth to answer, but just as she was about to, Margaery shifted in her drugged and murmured: “I love you, Robb Stark.” The look on her son’s face was one of awe, and it made her smile. “I think,” Catelyn remarked, “you might have your answer.”

* * *

 Robb hoped that the murmured words might herald Margaery waking, but they did not, and when Loras Tyrell showed up a few hours later to check on his sister, he barely noticed, except for when Grey Wind growled at the interloper. “Grey Wind.” He said sternly, reaching down to pat the direwolf in assurance.

Grey Wind tilted an eye up at his master and whined slightly but stopped growling, keeping wary lupine eyes on the young knight.

“Ser Loras,” Catelyn said with a smile. “Please, come in. I was about to ask Ser Garth to relieve me, as it has been a very long day and I need some rest, but I know I don’t have to worry about your sister with you here.” She smiled slightly.

“Lady Stark.” Loras said, somewhat awkwardly, with a bow just low enough to pass muster. “Thank you for looking after her.”

“Of course.” Catelyn said, rising from her chair and moving over to her son, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Robb, get some sleep at some point. Your Uncle Brynden has offered you his room while he’s away, and you can’t wear yourself down with things as tense as they are.”

“I will, Mother.” Robb answered, turning slightly and attempting to give her a smile. “I just want to sit with Margaery a little longer. I’m hoping she’ll wake.”

“All right.” Catelyn said with a sigh. “I’ll have Dacey check in an hour.”

Robb just nodded, settling back into his vigil. He knew his mother was right, he had an army that was splintering, a brand new alliance, and Ironborn raiding his shores. By all accounts he was going to need all the rest he could get, but a very large part of him needed to stay a little longer, hoping that Margaery might wake for just as many reasons. In the barest sense, the alliance he had just made would fall apart, but there was also the fact that he didn’t know what he was doing -- he was a soldier, he commanded men on the field, the strategies he knew were ones of the battlefield and only a few scant months ago he hadn’t even known those from anything but books and instinct. In his world you met the enemy on the field or in combat, they didn’t send assassins to kill you in your bed. He didn’t understand political intrigue the way Margaery did. She knew the scheming far better than he did. She understood the dark underbelly of people better than he did. More than any of that, though, he wanted Margaery to wake so that he would know she was alright, because he wanted her to be alright, because he _needed_ her to be alright.

“How did you do it?” Loras’s voice broke through Robb’s reverie, and the young king managed to tear his eyes away from the still form on the bed for a moment in confusion.

“Which ‘it’ are you asking me about, Ser Loras?” Robb asked, politely. “Though I’ll be the first to admit that the answer will likely be luck.”

“How did you convince Margaery to follow you?” Loras questioned, his expression twisted with some emotion he dare not name. “Renly was a good match -- how did you get her to leave and come here without ever coming South? Were there ravens we missed? Did Mira send messages for you?”

Despite his worries, Robb let out a bark of a laugh, unable to hold it back, regardless of the serious expression Loras wore. “Ser Loras, I didn’t reach out to your sister. I had never even heard her name before she sent a messenger to me while we were approaching the Trident.” He shook his head. “She did what she did on her own, and I accepted her only _after_ she put the entirety of the Lannister forces to sleep so my men could cross Ruby Ford.”

Loras’s jaw unhinged, and he looked at his sleeping sister again. They had been close for a lot of their youth, the two youngest of the family, at least until he had gone to squire for Renly and she had been left at Highgarden with their parents, Olenna, and Willas. “How could she have ever done such a thing?”

Robb shook his head, looking back at Margaery on the bed. “She drugged them all, laced their food with Mother’s Sleep, and ate with Tywin himself. She trusted her men and ladies to see the plan through.” He swallowed a little. “I don’t think she knows how grateful I am. Had we tried to fight our way across, we would have probably lost many men, and Lord Frey...well, he’s taken in the Lannisters for the moment. I would not want to know what toll he would have demanded, if he asked one at all. Perhaps he would have just killed me in his hall or turned me over to Joffrey.”

Loras stared at his unconscious sister, wondering if he had known her as well as he had thought, if he knew this new Margaery who calmed direwolves and led soldiers at all. “Why would she? Renly is... _was_ the best of men.”

Robb didn’t know if it was his place to answer, but Margaery was unconscious and he wanted Loras to understand, hopeful that he would accept he and Margaery as a couple. He needed Loras’s support, both as a member of Rillwater Crossing and for his plan to marry Margaery to work. “She was afraid you were dead, you know.” He said instead of answering right away. “She told me you’d protect Renly to the death. She cares more than she’s comfortable showing, more than she likes to admit. Had she stayed, she thought you’d grow to hate her. I was just...the next best option. There was no secret plot, no hidden letters, no star-crossed North-South romance. She was strong enough not to need those things.” He sometimes worried, in those moments of doubt that was still all he was to her -- the pragmatic, easy answer. None of it had been easy and the strongest reminder was the fact that she was injured.

“And she’ll apparently protect you to the death, Your Grace.” Loras remarked, somewhat bitterly.

Robb didn’t know what to say to that, but he was saved from the need to do so, by Margaery stirring awake. “Loras?” She murmured, blinking at the sound of her brother’s voice.

“Good morning, Margaery.” Loras said, almost smiling in relief... _almost_. “I thought we taught you to run _away_ from assassins?”

That broke the fog from milk of the poppy from her mind, and Margaery gasped, attempting to sit up. “Robb!”

“I’m right here, Margaery.” Robb said, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He reached out and took her hand. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“You’re really alright?” Margaery demanded, still trying to sit up, wincing as pain flared through her nerves.

“Yes.” Robb reassured her. “Don’t strain yourself. How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, but passable, Your Grace.” Margaery said, remembering her place and everything that had happened.

“Margaery…” Robb said softly. “I owe you an apology for the way I treated you.”

“You are a king, Your Grace.” Margaery reminded him. “A king need not apologise for how he treats his lessers.”

“What about how he treats his queen?” Robb asked wryly. “I told you before that I would fight for you, Margaery.”

Margaery started to shake her head, but apparently she was not as recovered from the poppy as she would have liked and it made her vision swim slightly. “Someone just tried to _kill_ you, Your Grace, you need support from your men, not a southron bride.”

“I need a bride by my side that I can _trust_ , Margaery, when I can’t trust all the men who have sworn themselves to me.” Robb argued quietly. “You said once that men thought you a witch meant to kill me in my tent. When I have been betrayed, when someone slips a Lannister assassin into our camp, into my _grandfather’s castle_ and the Freys have taken in the lions in my own supposed kingdom, how could I trust some random daughter of a bannerman?” He squeezed her hand. “What more proof that you would be loyal to me do I need other than you running to my side and attacking the would-be killer?”

“But…” Margaery sputtered, unsure.

Robb continued, not about to start allowing her to sway him with logic and big brown eyes.  “I may be a king, but I am a king at war, and a king who is going to need to go north and fight the Iron Islands before the North is ravaged even more. I need a queen who knows war and strategy enough to hold our gains here while I am on the second front. A queen who won’t be overridden by ambitious men who put power before the cause or want more advancement for their house. A northern beauty or riverlands lady hasn’t sat in on war councils like you have.”

“Dacey...” Margaery tried again, and then huffing when the king she had chosen silenced her with a finger to her lips, and then she melted despite herself at the look in his blue eyes, like fire.

Robb refused to look away, wanting to get this across to her more than anything. “I don’t know whether Rhaegar Targaryen loved his wife, but whether or not he did, he stole my aunt away, and my namesake destroyed a dynasty for a woman he loved. Cersei Lannister has dashed the kingdom into pieces by being unfaithful to a husband who humiliated her by grabbing willing women right in front of her because he could not have the that woman he loved. I will be a faithful husband to whomever I marry, but if she’s not you I won’t love her. Do you really want that kind of precedence set for the first Queen of Winter since Aegon’s Conquest?”

Margaery’s eyes had grown large. “You might grow to love someone else.”

“Could you?” Robb asked, seriously.

“No.” Margaery admitted, a little petulantly, despite herself.

“Marry me, Margaery.” Robb asked, holding her hands tightly. “You had the courage to strap on armor and go into battle despite being trained to be a lady and a queen, go into this battle at my side. There’s no one else I’d trust to do it.”

Margaery swallowed and argued with herself. Logic told her that it was still too dangerous, that she would still not be accepted, but at the same time Robb’s argument had been just as logical and it was not for nothing that people followed him -- he was charismatic in a way that drew people to him, and she was no exception. More than anything else, however, she _wanted_ that. She wanted the future she had dreamed, and all the wishes she had made as a silly girl-child. Surprisingly, it was the former that made her decision more than the latter, that and the look in his eyes. “Yes.” She said finally.

Robb knew what he should do. He should smile and thank her. Marriage was serious business, after all...but despite himself, he couldn’t manage his father’s dignity and let out a sound that resembled a whoop. He would have kissed her, but she still seemed pale and her brother was sitting nearby. Instead, he brushed a sweaty tendril of hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “You won’t regret it, Margaery, I promise.” He swore.

“I’m more afraid that _you_ will.” Margaery admitted, frowning even as her eyes sparkled with happiness.

“Never.” Robb said, squeezing her hand. “You’re the only good thing that’s happened to me since the king came to Winterfell.”

* * *

 Very little had changed at Riverrun since Margaery had accepted Robb’s proposal, in part because they were keeping it from most of the camp until the preparations for the fight against the Ironborn were finished. Everyone had taken to their assigned jobs with little to no grumbling, Rivermen, Northmen, Tyroshi and Reachmen all working together with varying degrees of success as squads were set on The Twins, the Tyroshi and some of the Reachmen moved to blockade the Roseroad and the Riverroad, isolating the Westerlands and cutting King’s Landing off from the fertile areas of the land, and more guards were set at the perimeter of all the camps. There was unease as groups knotted together closer, everyone trying to figure out who it was who turned traitor. Gossip and whispered accusations flourished no matter how much Robb tried to cut off the suspicions amongst the men.

Still, in order for there to _be_ a wedding, _some_ people had to know, and a small group had formed around it. Loras had been present at the proposal, and Margaery had told the Northern House Tyrell handmaidens, including Mira Forrester who had travelled with the delegation from The Reach and was all too glad to be back in the North. The quintet of women began embroidering a maiden cloak, concealing the fact that it was Margaery’s by working on two in turn, alternating them so that suspicious people would think that there was only one, a cloak being made for Nyssa Tyrell who had accepted her Leygood swain’s proposal. Robb had confided in his mother who had known it was coming, and Theon, who he had asked to stand with him as a witness and a brother instead of as a subject. To Robb, however, it seemed as though more and more people just kept _finding out_.

First it was Dacey, who had officially arrived to take over chaperone duty from Mira, and unofficially wanted to check on her friend, even if she’d never admit it. Unfortunately, she caught them in the middle of a row.

“Maester Vyman has said that I’m fine.” Margaery insisted, hands on her hips, even though her tone was even. “I have to check on my people. I can’t just stay here!”

“You were very nearly killed!” Robb argued. “I don’t want to see you hurt!”

“ _You_ were very nearly killed.” Margaery countered. “Do you think I still don’t imagine what would have happened if I had ignored Grey Wind? I realise that you are a king and you have responsibilities and a duty, so I keep my worries to myself that while I’m laid up in here some battle could come and you could be killed. I don’t ask you not to fight. I know you wouldn’t choose me over your people and I wouldn’t want you to.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Robb, none of my men, save Loras, have seen me since you were attacked. I need to reassure them that I’m well and I need to organise the preparations for holding the Riverlands and the Ironborn raids.”

“Loras…” Robb started to argue.

“Loras is my brother, but it’s still _my_ House. _I_ brought them here, and it’s  _me_ they need to hear it from, not Loras.”

Dacey had noticed something was off fairly quickly, but it was only at that moment that she realised what it was. “You finally said yes!” She declared, drawing the attention of the arguing couple. “Took you bloody long enough. If he weren’t my king I would have locked you in the armoury _weeks_ ago.”

The turned and looked toward Dacey who was grinning at them, and the argument was diffused as Robb quickly demanded Dacey swear not to tell anyone, before the old gods.

“Don’t know why you bother.” Mira said lightly, from where she had been sewing on one of the cloaks. “Everyone knows you’re in love, Your Grace. The only thing people debate is who bewitched who and whether the other one feels the same way.”

“And recently, whether or not you’ve actually bedded her or turned into a giant direwolf and devoured her.” Dacey filled in with a grin, effectively winning the argument as to whether or not Margaery needed to go out retake control of her men with that little rumour.

After Dacey it was Garrick Flowers, who had dared to come up to Robb and solemnly ask if when Margaery was queen, he could still be her messenger. Robb had been glad no one was around because his mouth had fallen open in surprise, before he regained his composure and informed him that he would always be a very important messenger to both of them.

Finally, and flamboyantly, it was The Queen of Thorns who had invited herself to tea with Catelyn and Margaery unbeknownst to either of them. Olenna and brought up wedding plans after scaring off a servant boy. Robb had arrived shortly afterwards, frightened by the sight of someone running from the room where his mother and his intended were supposed to be, out of breath from running.

“Ah, and here he is.” Olenna said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Hello, Your Grace. I suppose you’re the reason why Margaery is insisting on not getting married in the Sept?”

Robb realised that the man must have been running not from an intruder but from the sharp tongue of Olenna Tyrell, and relaxed, if only marginally. “Actually, I had assumed we would marry in the Sept, where my parents were married.” He turned to look at her in surprise. “Margaery?”

Margaery sipped her tea, trying to make a decision, before sighing. “You told me you’d pray to the Old Gods that you would win me, and I told you that I would pray to the Mother that she would make me content. Your gods answered.”

“A foolish prayer, my dear.” Olenna observed. “And not a reason to avoid marrying in the Light of the Seven.”

“Perhaps not.” Margaery allowed, smiling at Robb anyway. “But the my fiancé and king follows the Old Gods, as do most of Northern houses, and I want them to see that not only do I respect their ways and him, but I want to be a part of them, that things won’t change just because I was born in The Reach. That I’m not going to try and turn Winterfell into Highgarden.” She reached for a small cake, and took a bite, as if the political conversation were as light as asking the weather. “Besides, The Faith has sided with Joffrey.”

“Won’t your father be against a ceremony in the godswood, giving me your hand without a Septon?” Robb had seen Mace’s quick temper that first day.

“I imagine he _would_.” Olenna agreed. “But it will be Loras, won’t it, Margaery? She’s worked too hard to separate herself from Highgarden, she won’t want anyone to think her father has any influence over her, and with Loras becoming the head of the Blue Roses with your marriage, it’s the only sound choice.”

“Yes.” Margaery agreed, beaming at Robb who looked shocked at the amount of thought she had put into it. “All I care about is that in the end, we’re married without people turning on us.”

Olenna rolled her eyes at this. “Don’t lose your head, Margaery.”

* * *

 King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name had declared a feast, announcing to one and all the death of the Young Wolf. The nobles all filled the hall as great harts and game birds filled the table and the finest wine flowed, whilst the Rains of Castamere played in the background. He sat enthroned at the highest table between a pale and sad looking Sansa Stark and an equally victorious Cersei Lannister.

The chatting slowed and then went silent as the great doors opened, revealing a dirty, smelly, and tired looking Lannister knight, dragging himself forward, with a palace page carrying a wooden crate that looked even worse. “Your Grace!” the exhausted soldier said, as he tried to bow and nearly lost his footing.

Joffrey’s lip curled for a moment, before he spoke. “Are you a scout from my grandfather’s army, good ser? Are they on their way?”

“No.” The man said. “I was in Ser Jaime’s force, Your Grace. I was captured when we lost Riverrun. Robb Stark sent me with a message, Your Grace.”

Joffrey’s face went red. “You lie! The so-called Young Wolf is dead!”

“I wish he was, Your Grace.” The man said, shaking. “He’s terrifying. He...bid me thank you for the return of his father’s sword and…” The soldier swallowed hard.

“And?” Tyrion asked, standing to get a better look. “Finish, good ser.”

“Tha...that Grey Wind enjoyed the meal you sent him. He demands the return of his sisters, whole and healthy, the return of his father’s bones and recognition of the independence of The Kingdom of the North and The Trident.”

“Never!” Joffrey shouted, angrily, rising to his feet, even as his mother seemed to go from victorious to angry, eyes flashing like diamonds, while Sansa’s expression did not change.

The knight quaked. “He said...he said if you refused, I..I had to open the box.”

“So do it!” Joffrey demanded, puffing himself up and refusing to be afraid of a box, or let Robb Stark make a fool of him any more than he already had. “I have nothing to fear from Robb Stark.”

The messenger shook, but a servant came forward with a pry bar, and the stench that poured out made people around them cough, as the wood panels fell away to expose what remained of the expensive Myrish assassin Joffrey had hired and the head rolled forward onto the marble floor.

“He said...he said to tell you that winter is coming.”


	14. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb puts his foot in his mouth, but is able to recover. Then later, weddings.

Robb Stark, King of the North and the Trident found himself nervously standing outside the solarium of Riverrun like the little boy who had stolen oatcakes from Old Nan and spoiled his dinner. He felt all of his sixteen years at the moment, instead of the battle-hardened commander, but he took a breath and opened the door walking into the well-lit room. Margaery’s face exploded into a smile, and he felt himself grinning back at her despite himself.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” She murmured, putting her sewing aside. They were finishing up the maiden cloak for Nyssa now that Margaery’s was complete, but Margaery was still insisting on keeping things formal between them in areas where others might join them who were unaware of their plans.

“Good morning, Margaery.” He answered, with a nod to Nyssa sitting beside her. “I have something I wished to speak to you about.”

“Of course.” Margaery said, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. “Please, join us.”

Robb sat down beside her, taking the opportunity to brush a chaste kiss to her forehead as he did so. He paused for a moment. “I don’t want you to be upset.”

Margaery took a deep breath, worry making her gut clench. “You can tell me anything, Robb.”

Robb took a deep breath, marshalling his courage. “I’ve been thinking over the wedding, and as much as I want things to go the way you’ve planned, I think for the good of the kingdom…” He stopped as Margaery’s face crumpled and she let out a sob.

He immediately reached out, taking her face in his hands. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“That’s what ladies do when their lovers break their engagements, Your Grace.” Margaery said, taking a deep breath.

“Break their…” Robb repeated eyes widening. “No! Gods, Margaery, after everything it took me to get you to say yes?” He wiped away a tear with his thumb. “No, not that, never that.” He leaned down, and despite the impropriety, kissed her hard.

Margaery blinked and melted into the searing kiss, trying to get a handle on her emotions despite herself. She was usually so in control of her feelings but Robb always broke through what control she had, and his kiss was no different, it ran through her veins like fire and all she wanted to do was keep kissing him, but it was over as quickly as it started and she shook her head slightly to clear the fog from her mind. “What then?”

Robb let out a sigh of relief, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I only decided that we need to have two weddings. I know you had your set on a Northern wedding, and I liked the idea too, but half of our kingdom, including your House, follows the New Gods.”

Margaery frowned, despite the relief she felt that it was only about logistics and not about him marrying someone else. “The Faith considers us rebels and is backing Joffrey, though.” She said slowly.

“We won’t ask them to recognise us as king and queen.” Robb said, running his thumb over her cheek comfortingly. “We’re only asking the septon to marry us. I don’t want the Faith or anyone else to be able to question the validity of our marriage...or the legitimacy of any children we might have.”

Margaery considered that, and nodded her assent. “It’s not a bad plan. If we can find a septon willing to marry us.”

“The septon here at Riverrun married my parents and my Aunt Lysa to Jon Arryn.” Robb said softly. “He’s loyal to my grandfather, and as long as we don’t ask him to contravene the declaration of the High Septon regarding kingship, he will do it.” 

“Good then.” Margaery said softly. “My cloak is finished, when you are ready.”

Robb’s lips quirked up in a smile. “I’ve been ready to marry you since I saw you strapping on armour to lead your men.” He confessed. “I realised in that moment that if you were killed, I didn’t know what I would do.”

Margaery smiled in response. “I think I’d been fighting my feelings since the first time I met you.” She confessed. “I didn’t know who you were at first, but the way you smiled at me...and then to find out that  _ you _ were this great battle commander and king, and yet still kind enough to help me from the wagon, without an ounce of superiority...you were so unlike every other lordling I had ever met.”

“We’ll make the announcement tonight.” Robb said quietly. “And marry tomorrow, so that we have a few days together before I leave.”

“I should like that.” Margaery admitted, forcing herself to pull away and end the moment. “I must talk to Loras about our changes and prepare for the announcement.”

“Of course.” Robb said with a nod. He released her with a smile. “Tomorrow, though...tomorrow you’re mine.”

* * *

The announcement happened at dinner, though not everyone was present, many were, including most of their new southern allies from the Tyrells. “Before we end this meal,” he said, standing from the table at the front of the mess tent that spilled out into the field. He spoke loudly, trying to ensure his voice projected, which was helped along by the fact that when he stood the chattering had slowed to a stop. “I have an announcement. Firstly, Ser Loras Tyrell will be taking over the leadership of House Tyrell of Rillwater Crossing.”

Loras stood, now garbed in white, with his tunic edged in blue, but he was still wearing golden armour with a stag’s head on it, and Robb knew better than to ask him to change it or say anything. Loras bowed slightly to the assemblage in respect and retook his seat when Robb resumed speaking.

“This is because Lady Margaery Tyrell has agreed, after much discussion, to be my wife and queen. Due to the different religious beliefs of The North and The Trident, there will be a ceremony in the Sept where my parents were married at a quarter to midday, for those who hold to the Faith of the Seven, and afterwards, at sunset, a ceremony before the heart-tree in the Godswood.” Robb barely resisted the urge to take a deep breath as the area filled with chatter. He didn’t know what he would say at first, because there were so many strains of conversation he couldn’t make out any of the individual words.

At least until he heard someone yell: “It is so my day, you owe me five golden dragons!” 

Relaxing, he reached for his cup of ale, and took a deep drink of it, glad that his stomach had stopped churning. He had managed to eat very little, worried about the reaction of his men. While a few months ago he might have been fooled by the joviality, now he was slightly more jaded. He knew not everyone was pleased and that things would be strange and strained for awhile yet, but he had hope. He had to have hope, or he would grab Margaery, throw her on the back of his horse, and ride back to Winterfell without looking back. He had to have hope in order to be a king. Hope that his sisters would be returned, hope that his choice of queen would be accepted, hope that they could win...and most of all, hope that he could be as much a honourable, good, and just king as his father had been a lord.

* * *

When Margaery had thought about her wedding in the past, she had never really spent too much time considering the groom. She was the only daughter of a noble house, and she really didn’t think her husband would be a choice for her to make. Grandmother Olenna held that men in general were foolish things, and it was unlikely that she would find one that ‘could think with the head on his shoulders.’ So, when she planned, her bridegroom had always been a faceless silhouette. Instead, she thought over dresses and jewels and what her father would wear as he walked her to the Septon in her green and gold maiden’s cloak. She thought about what the sun would look like in the stained glass windows. She dreamed about light pastries on golden plates and peaches so juicy her chin was sticky with it at her wedding breakfast in her extravagant bedroom in Highgarden -- and the dress, the dress she had dreamed about, the kind of dress everyone would try to emulate, shot through with golden thread and crafted silk roses, and the finest Myrish lace, secure in the fact that she was a catch, daughter of one of the strongest houses of Westeros. 

Instead, on her wedding day, she was sitting in her tent in a war camp, her wedding breakfast was on a wooden plate was roasted trout and one bruised peach Olenna had given her with a comment about those old dreams. Instead of a fine dress, she sat in her smallclothes, as Lynette and Nyssa worked with flying fingers, trying to make one of her two blue and white dresses somehow grand enough for a wedding, let alone a royal wedding. Instead of the Tyrell maiden cloak that had been waiting in her hope chest at Highgarden since she was a girl, passed down from the last Tyrell bride, she had something that she had created with her ladies and poured every dream and hope into it. Instead of her father in gleaming gold and green, it will be dear Loras standing at her side, wearing the armour of his own ill-advised love. Instead of imagining how the stained glass will play upon the Sept, Margaery was dreading it, on just how different it will make half of the people look at her and her influence on her groom. Instead of secure in the fact that she was a good catch, she was well aware that there were people who would rather have her exiled back to Highgarden than saying vows. And yet...with all that, she couldn’t help but smile, because unlike that dream of girlhood, her bridegroom has a face, and she cares more about him than the ceremony. Robb Stark was a groom she had chosen, a groom she had fought with and for, and by the end of the day she wouldn’t be calling herself Lady Margaery Tyrell anymore.

“This is not quite the wedding I had in mind for you, Margaery.” Olenna said, standing behind her granddaughter at her mirror. “But I bought these for your wedding, and perhaps they’ll remind you not to forget who you are.” With that, the venerable matriarch of the Tyrell family draped a rope of pearls around Margaery’s neck and kissed her cheek with her thin, papery lips. “I wish you every happiness, my dear.”

* * *

Robb was sure he had gone to a wedding in the Faith at some point, but he couldn’t really remember it. Luckily for him, his uncles were all too happy to walk him through it, while Theon took the piss out of him every chance he could get. Desmera Redwyne had shown up at his door at dawn with breakfast and gifts from the Tyrells and Margaery herself, assuring him that it was a Reach tradition.

That hadn’t helped his nerves. Neither had rehearsing the vows. Now, standing in the light of the Sept facing the priest, with his back to the door and listening to the man drone on out of  _ The Seven Pointed Star _ , he wondered how after all of this, his father had  _ felt _ married. 

He stiffened as the door opened, barely resisting the urge to turn around. The Septon had warned him against it, and Robb was glad he had, because the urge to turn and watch was almost overwhelming. He twitched slightly but was able to stand still until he felt Margaery standing beside him, and turned slightly to see her out of the corner of his eye.

The aged Septon smiled at the nervous bridegroom. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Robb turned, and his breath caught for a moment, to see Margaery smiling at him from undr the cloak she and her maidens had been working at so diligently. She turned and let Loras remove it, and then turned her back to him. 

Robb swallowed hard, and removed his white cloak, edged in fur, and placed it over her shoulders. He ran his hands gently down her back as if to smooth it, but really just to take a moment to touch the grey direwolf sigil that was now on her back. He then turned back, He reached out and took Margaery’s hand as she turned back to face the Septon, hoping that his wasn’t too terribly clammy, with the irrational thought that if it was, maybe she might change her mind and run away from him, go back to declaring a spinsterhood or a political match, that she would be his queen of thorns, but not his queen. 

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Thus began the long and drawn out seven blessings and seven vows. Robb had worked hard to memorise them, though he was sure he would mess them up, he still wanted to try and get them right. After they had repeated vows of all seven gods, and the blessings were finally finished the Septon tied a white ribbon around their hands. 

The Septon was smiling to himself, glad that he got to enjoy the responsibility of another wedding, and that this one was as much for love as it was for duty. It was especially poignant as he had overseen Robb’s parent’s wedding, and blessed the babe in the Light of the Seven at his birth.  “Let it be known that Robb of House Stark and Margaery of House Tyrell of Rillwater Crossing are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” He cracked a smile. “Now, look upon each other and say the words.”

Robb had been practicing the final vow, saying the Seven in the right order, with an amused Edmure and a beside herself Catelyn who had declared Robb to utterly be his father’s son no matter how he looked the third time he mixed it up. As amusing as it was, he wanted at least this one to be perfect. He had already flubbed some of the others, but it was slightly more difficult with Margaery smiling at him, her hair up in an intricate pattern that showed the pale line of her throat and wearing his cloak, but he managed. 

“I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days.” He said strongly, staring right into Margaery’s brown eyes. 

“I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days.” Margaery answered in unison, unable to keep from smiling at him and the stubborn little auburn curl in the middle of his forehead.

The Septon smiled and gestured, untying the ribbon around their hands. “With this kiss…” Robb said, everything lost to him but Margaery at that moment. “I pledge my love.” It felt as though he had been waiting forever to do this, to publicly be able to call her his own, to kiss her without worrying about propriety, and he lost himself in it.

Margaery had been expecting the chaste kisses of every wedding she had attended in The Reach, even Garlan hadn’t done more than given Leonette the briefest of pecks, but Robb either didn’t know or care, and she couldn’t bring herself to break away. Robb was King of Winter, but his kiss was anything but cold, and she melted into him despite herself, returning it with all the fervor she could muster, everything but his lips on hers and his hands cradling her face as if she was some precious thing forgotten in the scorching heat that made the Highgarden sun seem like the bitterest Riverlands winds she had felt. 

Mace Tyrell’s humph was drowned out by the cheering of the Northern lords who had deigned to attend the first service cheering and laughing at the sight.

* * *

After the first wedding was the marriage feast. Lord Edmure, sitting beside Margaery, formally apologised. 

“I’m sorry that the feast could not be grander.” He said, flushing. “So much of the Riverlands has been burned out, even with the support of supplies from the Reach, we just couldn’t put together more.”

Margaery smiled, and put a hand on his arm. “Peace, Lord Edmure, I understand. I would prefer the camps and the smallfolk be feed than a fancier feast.” 

Edmure shook his head. “It’s a rare woman that would say such a thing on her wedding day, nephew. You’re very lucky.”

“I know it.” Robb said, looking at Margaery with admiration.

Feeling nervous and a little of something else from the look in her husband’s eyes -- and he  _ was _ truly her husband now -- made her stomach flip and her skin flush with something other than embarrassment. “Oh look, the pie!”

“I’m afraid it’s only fish pie, Your Graces,” The serving girl said, looking down. “We tried to find pigeon, but there just weren’t enough of ‘em.”

“I’d rather fish pie from the Riverlands than pigeon pie from the Crownlands any day.” Robb assured her. 

Margaery took his hand and beamed, taking a sip of her wine and smiling. “Try the wine, Husband.” She murmured to him quietly, feeling a strange sort of elation in being able to say that aloud, even if it was said meant for only his ears, as she took a forkful of pie. “It’s a gift from Father.”

Robb barely heard the request, mostly because he was listening to everything else going on, worried that their traitor might choose to somehow ruin their wedding. Still, he gave Margaery a smile and took a sip of the wine, which turned out to be warm hippocras. The spices took him by surprise, but the wine went down better than any wine he had drank since the night he had decided to drink away his sorrows. “It’s good. What is it?”

“Highgarden’s best hippocras.” Margaery admitted. “Grandmother wanted to serve a cask of Arbor Gold, but hippocras is said to incite passions, so Father insisted.”

_ That _ statement made Robb choke on the spiced wine. Eyes wide, he turned to stare at her. “He... _ what? _ ”

Margaery laughed despite herself at his expression. “I could say he merely wishes to ensure that the consummation goes well, but if I am honest, he is showing his ambition yet again. We were both born while our fathers were at war, he wishes to see me birth you a prince sooner rather than later, for the security of your throne and mine, and your promises of a Tyrell monarchy in the Reach.”

Robb ran a hand over his forehead. “Does the man ever stop?”

“When he’s feasting.” Margaery said placidly.

* * *

After the feast, Margaery found herself dreading the fact that she had to give back the warm cloak that Robb had spread over her shoulders. When the time came, she spent a moment, holding the top of it close to her throat, before slowly removing it and holding it out to Theon. 

“Next time this is taken off you won’t be complaining.” Theon said, a bit lewdly.

Mira giggled at the jape from behind her hand, even as she retrieved the maiden cloak from Loras and spread it back over Margaery’s shoulders. “Just once more, Margaery.” She said, comfortingly. “And no one will doubt your marriage.”

Margaery sighed and nodded. “Once more.” She agreed, watching as Theon left the room. “I have sworn before the new gods, now to swear before the old.”

Mira worked with deft fingers, pulling down the complicated curling updo that Desmera had put in that morning, weaving it into a less complicated and purely Northern style that flowed around her shoulders in gentle waves. “I know your gown isn’t as grand as those you had in the Reach, even for feasts, but I think you look like the most beautiful bride.”

“I only hope Robb feels the same way.” Margaery admitted. She no longer worried that he would change his mind, not after the first ceremony, but she was sorry she couldn’t have been a finer bride. At the same time, however, she worried that had she arrived in the kind of Tyrell richness that her family would have preferred, that she would be put off the Northerners, who seemed to care so much less about appearance and so much more about other things. 

Dacey, standing in a corner, gave a snort. “After that kiss? Really? I think half the women in the camp dampened their smallclothes at that kiss.”

Margaery smiled dreamily at that. “It was a  _ very _ good kiss.” She admitted. 

Dacey cackled at the expression on her face. “Come on, Margaery, let’s get you wedded proper and off to the bedding you’re obviously daydreaming about.”

Margaery didn’t argue, and took her brother’s arm again as he lead her through Riverrun to the Godswood. She had been spending more time there as of late, enjoying the gardens, but also trying to get closer to the gods of the North. She still was not overly religious, she didn’t know what she even believed, if she believed in anything, but the Godswood was calming and a place where she could think, for at least awhile. 

Now though, as they approach, the Godswood is full and spilling out into the surrounding areas, too many who want to see  _ this _ ceremony,  _ this _ wedding. She holds herself taller, even as Dacey and Mira leave her side to find their families and the rest of her maidens fall into the line of Tyrells, blue and golden roses alike. She holds herself a little taller, reminding herself that she is a  _ queen _ , and she must show these people her strength. Sweet Loras beside her seems both happy and sad, and she doesn’t need to ask why. She gives him a smile as they approach Robb, now looking like a king, crown and all, and she is awed, once again, that this man should want her. Margaery, who had never been the prettiest, never as fair as Alerie, or as beautiful as Olenna her youth. 

“Who comes?” Theon asked, He and Catelyn standing on one side of Robb, Grey Wind at the other, watching with yellow eyes. “Who comes before the Gods?”

Loras’s voice wavered slightly, but Margaery thought that only she had noticed it. “Margaery of House Tyrell of Rillwater Crossing, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Robb, if it was possible, stood straighter. “Me, Robb of House Stark, King in the North, King of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?”

Loras swallowed. “Ser Loras of House Tyrell of Rillwater Crossing, her trueborn brother.” He turned to look at her, his eyes meeting hers. “Lady Margaery, will you take this man?”

Margaery knew that if she said no, Loras would disregard everything else, even the wedding before the Seven, and cut his way out of the Northern camp if she said no. He loved her that much. She however, had no desire to say no. “I take this man.” She said strongly.

Robb took a step towards her and offered her his hand, and she took it willingly. Together they knelt before the tree and bowed their heads to pray. She didn’t know the right words or the rites, the way she did with the Seven, but she prayed anyway. 

_ Protect him, I beg of you _ . She prayed silently.  _ Protect him, and our people, and the smallfolk who look to us. Save us from the machinations of traitors, the raids of the Ironborn, and the claws of the Lannisters. Let me be a good wife and queen, and let me live up to the faith he places in me. Let us end this war, so that he can return home, and let me bear him good strong sons and daughters, as my mother did for my father. He says winter is coming, but let us also grow strong and thrive boldly. _ So focused was she on her desperate prayers, more wishes than anything else, that she lost herself, until Robb tugged on her hand, and she rose with him, turning to face the great crowd. Robb moved over and removed the maiden cloak, handing it to Loras, before removing his own for the second time that day, placing it over her shoulders. She held it close, breathing in the scent of leather, wolf, and wind that was her husband, when he surprised her and nodded to Theon.

Theon came forward then, and opened a wooden chest she had not seen before, offering it to Robb.

Robb took a deep breath, and from the chest he removed a crown, with swords like his, smaller, but no more delicate, save for the pearls that ran along the band, bearing the same swords as his own. Her heart caught in her throat as he reached up and placed it on her head. He turned to look back at the crowd. “My Lords, my Ladies, I give you Margaery Tyrell, Queen in the North!”

“No.” Margaery said, holding his hand tightly, but her voice did not waver. “Stark, my Lord.”

The Northmen went wild, cheering and stomping, chanting “ _STARK! STARK! STARK!_ ”

Robb turned to her in amazement. “Are you sure?” He asked, quietly. “Neither Cersei, nor any of the Targaryen queens ever took their husband’s names.”

Margaery smiled at him. “None of them are queens I particularly wish to emulate, husband.” She reminded him. “I am your wife. I will  _ be _ your wife in all things.”

Robb, overwhelmed, kissed her hard, ignoring the hooting as he took out his gratitude out on the rosebud lips of hers, and thanked the gods, again, that she had dared to come to him, because he would not have known what he was missing. 

Breaking the kiss again, he announced. “My lords and my ladies, I give you Margaery Stark, the Queen in the North!”

“The Queen in the North!” Someone shouted, and the chanting began again, calls of ‘ _Stark!’_ and ‘ _The Queen in the North_ ’ eddied around them, intermixed witrh with ‘ _The King in the North_ ’ 

At their feet, Grey Wind loosed a great howl, that made some of the more Southron men shudder, and from somewhere in the distance came an answering chorus of howls that joined the cheers in the air. 


	15. Wolf Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after their wedding, Robb needs to head North to repel the Ironborn, leaving Margaery with some of the army behind at Riverrun to hold the Riverlands. They both find unexpected souls.

Robb sighed, wishing that he could stay in the relative warmth and peace of his chambers, but like his father before him, he had married in the midst of the war and all the inconveniences that brought. The war invaded everything. He would be leaving tomorrow and while his wedding night had been uninterrupted, the concerns of a king laid heavy on his brow. Though, he had to admit, discussing troop movements was much less stressful when doing so in bed next to his delightfully nude wife.

“We should split the Forresters.” Margaery said thoughtfully. “Gregor can take the primary detachment north, he knows what lies ahead. Rodrik can keep a secondary force here.”

“Why?” Robb asked, curious. “I would have left you all of them.” He knew the Forresters, along with the Mormonts and the Karstarks were the troops aside from her own that Margaery trusted the most. The alliance with the Forresters had been forged even before she had come north, when Elissa had sent Mira to act as Margaery’s handmaiden at Highgarden.

“Gregor fought in the first Greyjoy Rebellion, he knows what to expect and how to handle it.” She pointed out. “Rodrik while strong and powerful, is hot-headed, he could lose his cool and become reckless. Plus, he intimidates the Lannisters, so he’s a good figure to have here if Joffrey retaliates.” She grinned a little.

Robb chuckled. “I should have known you’d have a better reason than Mira fancying Theon.”

“I’m certainly not asking you to send _Mira_.” Margaery said, with a shake of her head. “She’s surprisingly good at getting past people’s guards, though she doesn't know quite how to use it yet. I need to work with her more. Nyssa will be helping her while Desmera keeps an eye on Bolton’s movements for me.”

“Bolton isn’t staying.” Robb denied right away. “We both know he despises you.”

“That’s _why_ he’s staying.” Margaery replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “You honestly think he doesn’t resent you for marrying me? Too many things can go wrong in a battle and passed off as an accident. I don’t trust him not to turn on you and sell you out to the Greyjoys if he thinks he can name himself Red King. The Boltons have a history of treachery toward the Starks. We are holding Riverrun, not in active siege. As long as he thinks he’s staying as a senior commander, it should stay his hand.”

Robb didn’t like it, but she had a point. That was the most frustrating thing about arguing with Margaery, she always had a _point_ . “Never meet with him alone.” He bargained. “Grey Wind stays with you _at all times_ , and Dacey is with you if you meet with him.”

“Grey Wind isn’t going to be _here_.” Margaery said in horror. “You are the Young Wolf. The sight of Grey Wind cows some of your enemies before anything else. If you don’t have him with you, some will see it as weakness. He has become a symbol of your power and strength.”

Grey Wind lifted his head from the floor and woofed at his masters at the sound of his name, looking rather pleased with the compliments.

“I’m not budging on this one.” Robb said stubbornly. “Grey Wind stays and protects you.”

Margaery had a flash of memory from her first battle, the battle where she would have fallen had Grey Wind not come to her rescue, only this time instead of her, it was Robb. “He could be the difference between life and death, Robb. I can’t.”

Robb ran a hand over his brow. “I have an ulterior motive for needing him here, Margaery.” He hated to admit this, terrified that she would be horrified, that she would disavow him, and toss him from their bed. Wargs were horrors from Old Nan’s stories, more beast than man, spoken of in whispers.

Margaery tilted her head, intrigued. “An ulterior motive from my brave and forthright Northern husband? _This_ I must hear.”

Robb smiled despite himself, and swooped in to kiss her, as if it could help him keep her. He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t want you to be frightened of me.”

“Did you not hear our vows, my love?” Margaery teased him. “I am yours and you are mine from yesterday until the end of my days.”

Robb smiled at her jape, but only a little. “Sometimes, when I dream, I don’t really dream, I find my mind inside Grey Wind. I’m...I’m a warg.”

Margaery’s initial instinct was to laugh, but when she saw how serious he was, it died in her throat before it could escape and she found herself speechless. If it wasn't for the _fear_ in Robb’s eyes, she would have called it a jape. She had never seen him look so afraid, and his hands unconsciously dug into her thighs as if afraid she would run. Her second instinct was to demand how he could have kept this from her, but just as quickly she realised that in his place, by the time she would have trusted herself, she wouldn’t have cared.

“So.” She said instead, deciding on the distant third reaction -- pragmatic. “We’ll have to come up with a signal, so I know when I am talking to our wolf, and when I am talking to my husband.”

Robb let out a relieved breath, as if he had been carrying a giant weight on his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Margaery advised him. “Because if I’m keeping Grey Wind, you’re taking Dacey. I need someone I trust to watch out for you like I would.”

Robb hid a smile. He would have promised her the moon,  as grateful as he felt for her acceptance, agreeing to take one of his most trusted soldiers was nothing. Instead, he pushed all plans away and tangled his hands in her hair, tracing the curve of her neck and then shoulder with his lips and tongue, planning to show her rather than waste words.

* * *

No one was really startled when the new king and queen didn’t emerge from their chambers until it was time to plan. There were more than a few bets that a new prince or princess would be made known in a few months time, and the mood was generally jovial, as much as they could be, situations with the Ironborn and the Lannisters what they were.

Dacey had been surprised by the fact that she had been chosen to go North, until Margaery stopped by her tent. “Your Grace,” she said, with a brief bow, as she packed.

“ _Lady Mormont_ ,” Margaery replied, smirking when Dacey scoffed. “I’m here as Margaery, Dacey.”

“Well, come in then.” Dacey replied, a bit gruffly, but pleased that the Tyrell formality hadn’t seeped back into her friend with the new title.

Margaery knew she should say something else as she stepped further into the tent. “Watch him for me.” She said softly. “I won’t insult you and ask you to look out for him. I know you’d never let any harm come to him, as a Mormont, as a soldier and as his friend, but…” She trailed off. “I need someone I trust to have his back, while I’m not there.”

Dacey was glad that the little queen didn’t suggest she would do any different, but she understood the need. “Why me? Why not your brother?”

Margaery opened her mouth and then closed it again. She sighed before she answered. “Loras is a knight. He’s never been in a real battle, and he’s going to have the stress of the entirety of our House on his shoulders. That’s a lot for a third son, especially for one still mourning.” She smiled a bit wanly. “You’re my best friend.”

“Now _that’s_ sad.” Dacey replied with a grin.

* * *

 “Theon?” Mira asked nervously, approaching the Ironborn man, who looked as disturbed by what he was about to do as one could expect. “Are you...do you have a moment?”

Theon turned, pasting on a smirk, as if he was trying to be more confident. “For a girl as pretty as you, I always have at least a handful.”

Mira tried to smile a Highgarden smile, full of flattery and flirtatiousness, but she had never quite gotten it to work. “It’s just…” She grabbed his hand, and pulled him over towards a tree. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” Theon asked in surprise. “Why?”

“So you come back.” Mira murmured at her shoes. “You’re the heir of Balon Greyjoy. They might try and make you stay, make you think you have nothing here, away from the Iron Islands.” Quickly, as if he would walk away, she pulled a shield from behind the tree, and held it out to him. “And to keep you safe. It’s ironwood, it’ll only for a Forrester, and none of them will be firing at you, so even arrows aflame won’t get through.”

Theon took the shield, staring down at it, his false smile gone as he swallowed. “Thank you, Mira.”

“Come back.” Mira replied, watching him. “That’s all the thanks I need.”

* * *

 When the soldiers were ready, the bags were packed, and the last orders had been given, it was time for the army to split, and for Margaery to say goodbye. It was an odd sensation, foreign and familiar all at once, like the dread every time Garlan or Loras left for the lists, mingled with the regret and self-doubt she had felt during The Battle of Whispering Wood, and the fear of that night when Grey Wind had woken her to find an assassin. She didn’t show it, though. She had to be strong for everyone else. She had to show confidence. No-one could doubt that she believed that their people would come back victorious, whole, and with Robb at the head.

“The Old Gods and the New bring you victory, Your Grace.” Margaery told him, hoping he could see the truth in her eyes. He had known it earlier in the day, when she had begged him to lie with her again, he had seen it in the bow of her body as she pressed closer to him, heard it in her voice as she gasped and moaned his name, felt it in the desperate, heated kisses. It was all a bid to get closer. To stave off the very real fact that he might leave her alone; as if when they joined once more, if she never let go, that she might slide under his skin, and rest her head on his heart, make a bed of his muscles and sinew, and protect him from the worst of what might happen. All she could do was slip a handkerchief into into his hand as she helped him dress, the small intimacy bringing some small, cold comfort.

“The Old Gods and the New protect and guide you and our kingdoms, my queen.” Robb nodded once to her. Louder he said: “Winter is Coming!”

It went up like a cheer among everyone assembled. “ _Winter is Coming_!”

Buoyed, and turning toward the army, he called again. “The North Remembers!”

It crossed the fields like a roar. “ **THE NORTH REMEMBERS!** ”

Quietly, almost silently, so that no one other than Catelyn and Grey Wind standing at her side heard, she whispered: “And may it thrive boldly too.”

* * *

 Two days march from Riverrun, and the Northern army was mostly in good humour, much of it glad to finally be _doing something_ again, especially since that _something_ was returning North to destroy a threat to their lands and people. They had made good time, and when that second night fell and camp was struck, there was good humour in much of the party… until the wolves came.

The howls had startled everyone, even Robb, a little. A yellow-rose knight, sitting by the same fire as Robb, remarked, voice shaky: “We’ve heard tales of wolves marauding the Riverlands. When we saw Grey Wind, we thought that’s where they came from...but it’s them, isn’t it?”

“Probably.” Dacey replied, glancing around briefly.

Robb wanted to take it as good omen, but he was practical as well. They were an army, with all the weaponry that entailed, but they needed rest to continue their journey, not a midnight skirmish against wild wolves. At the same time, this _was_ the best camping site for miles, and breaking it down and packing back up in pitch darkness would lead to valuable resources getting lost.

“You a Lannister, boy, that you should be frightened of wolves?” Gregor Forrester asked, spitting a fishbone he had been using to pick his teeth to the side.

“No!” The knight replied, panicked.

“Then I doubt you have anything to worry about.” Apparently, Gregor was right. No wolves had entered into camp overnight and as they marched down the Kingsroad the third day, they came across the source of the howls. It was a strange pack of wolves, a hundred or more, led by a giant thing, almost the size of Grey Wind.

“Hold.” Robb snapped, as a squire of a Riverlands house nocked an arrow. Direwolves past The Wall, he knew that to be truth, but this far south? He dismounted his horse and walked toward it, ignoring the growls of the real wolves. “Nymeria.” He said, just loudly enough for them all to hear. “Arya named you for the warrior queen of Dorne.”

Nymeria growled softly, but didn’t bare her teeth and Robb took that as a victory.

“Do you remember me?” He closed his eyes, just for a moment, holding out his hand. “Will you come with us? Grey Wind will be as glad to see you as I would be to see Arya. As soon as we stop the raids, we will be going back to Riverrun, where Grey Wind is watching the rest of the army.”

The growling stopped, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten as the pack broke to either side of the Kingsroad, allowing passage, only the direwolf staying in the center of the road.

Robb grinned and took a piece of dried meat from his pocket, tossing it to the wolf, who snapped in the air and swallowed it in one bite. He turned slowly back to his horse and hoped the large creature wouldn’t lunge when his back was turned.

* * *

 Margaery found that as queen, only three things had really changed, compared to when she had simply been head of the blue roses, and one was due to the fight against the Ironborn: the lack of seeing Robb. Somehow she hadn’t realised just how often she had seen him in a day, even when they didn’t seek out another’s company. The second was the fact that she was now hearing petitions and making decisions instead of just listening, and third was the honourifics. She had always thought that to hear someone call her “Your Grace,” or “My Queen,” would be the highest victory. Instead, while she did enjoy it, and she was human and self-aware enough to admit she did, it almost fell beneath her notice with everything else she was trying to do.

She was taking a rare break in the Godswood, seated under the heart-tree with Grey Wind lying in her lap as she stroked his fur, when Ostern, one of the Northern scouts, rushed in and almost fell over himself. Margaery felt her throat fill her chest as she quickly pushed Grey Wind from her lap and stood. “What is it?”

“Your Grace,” He panted. “There's a boy here! He’s demanding to see His Grace and claims he has one of the princesses!”

Margaery drew air through her teeth. “Go fetch the the king’s mother, inform her I need to see her at once, at the gates, but…” Margaery paused, not wanting to get her hopes up. “Only tell her we may have word on her daughters.”

Margaery left the Godswood without saying anything further, skirts swishing, for all that her fine bodice had been replaced by chainmail. She had assumed the old Highgarden air, one that she had let lapse all too often. She just hoped it would stand her in good stead now.

There was a boy there, or a young man, common, with no sign of rank or house on him. “What can I do for you?” She asked, eyeing the young man and the second, grubby person at his side, either a short young woman or a rather grubby child.

“I’m here to talk to Robb Stark.” The young man replied. “You’re not Robb Stark.”

A laugh came to Margaery’s lips, but she bit it down. “The king is in battle. I am in charge here while he is gone.”

The shorter figure let out a snort. “And _who_ are _you_?” The voice came, challenging, with absolutely no fear of the men who had assembled or the direwolf at Margaery’s side.

“My name is Margaery.” She said, in her kindest voice. Arya or not, it was a young girl who had obviously seen quite a lot. “And who are you?”

Grey Wind perked up suddenly, tilting his head and moving forward to sniff at the girl. Unlike most people, even those used to the direwolf, she didn’t back away, instead she reached out to touch him. “Grey Wind!” She exclaimed, as the direwolf licked her cheek, pushing at him as though he had rather ruined her attempts to be intimidating

“Margaery!” Catelyn’s voice cut across the courtyard as she ran, undignified as it was. “What was that mess…”

“Mother!” The girl cried, pushing past Grey Wind to fly at Catelyn, pressing her muddy clothes tightly against the woman’s gown. Whatever was keeping the anger in the girl broke and she began to cry.

“Arya?” Catelyn breathed, unable to pull back enough to see her, but knowing it anyway. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Is your sister with you?” The questions came so quickly that Arya had no time to answer one before another was posed.

Well, that decided that. “Desmera,” she called to one of her handmaidens. “Have two rooms prepared for Princess Arya and her rescuer. Nyssa, please have baths prepared, and see if you can find some proper clothes.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Both girls answered, sipping instinctual curtsies as they scurried off to do their duties.

Margaery turned to the young man, now shifting from foot to foot. “And you are?” She asked again. “Who am I thanking for the return of Arya Stark?”

“I’m Gendry. I’m just a smith.” The young man said, shaking his head. “The goldcloaks were after us both, and we’ve been running ever since. We heard in a tavern about Robb Stark retaking Riverrun and have been making our way here since.”

“Well, Gendry, until Robb returns and can reward you himself, you shall remain here as our honoured guest.” Margaery told him.

“I couldn’t…” Gendry started.

“I don’t think you could leave her, either.” Margaery said wisely.

“Who _are_ you?” Gendry demanded.

Margaery smiled. “I’m Margaery Stark, Robb’s wife, and queen in The North.”


End file.
